THE 

"^^-   *  * 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


Gift  of 
Mrs.  Prank  Good 


THE    OUTCAST; 


AND 


OTHER     POEMS 


BY 


J.     W.    WATSON, 

AUTHOR  OF  "BEAUTIFUL  SNOW;   AND  OTHER  POEMS.' 


COMPLETE     IN     ONE     VOLUME. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS  ; 
306    CHESTNUT    STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1872,  by 

T.  B.  PETERSON   &  BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.C. 


TS 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

'           PUBLISHERS'   PREFACE 19 

x           THE  OUTCAST 21 

THE  OLD  MUSICIAN 30 

r 

NJ 

^          NELLY— SWEET  NELLY   BROWN 35 

DARLING  DORA  M'lLVAINE 37 

TO-NIGHT 41 

MY  DARLING  JOSEPHINE 43 

GONE  TO  SEA 45 

foUT  ON  A  BOUNDLESS  SEA 4S 

NIGHT  BURIAL   AT  SEA 51 

J^V  DEATH  RIDES  ON   THE  EASTERN  WIND 56 

REAL  CHRISTMAS   ANGELS 60 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STORE   65 

DEBT 71 

THE  CIRCUS  BOY ' 75 

17 


I S  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GARIBALDI'S  ENTRY  INTO  NAPLES So 

THE  TWELFTH  COMES  BACK  TO-DAY 85 

THE  WALTZ  OF  ANTIETAM 90 

MY  SERGEANT  OF  THE  GUARD 94 

THE  BALL  IS  UP 99 

CHRISTMAS  DAY 101 

I  WISH  YOU  A  HAPPY  NEW  YEAR 1 14 


APPENDIX 


119 


PUBLISHERS'     PREFACE. 


At  a  time  when,  in  the  language  of  society,  "  Poetry  is 
a  drug  in  the  market,"  the  success  of  the  volume  entitled 
"Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems,"  by  John  W.  Watson, 
might  be  considered  remarkable,  were  it  not  that  the  ac- 
knowledged merit  of  these  lyrics,  most  of  which  appeal  to 
the  tenderest  and  kindest  feelings  of  humanity,  is  very 
remarkable  also.  The  high  eulogiums  passed  upon  these 
compositions  by  the  discerning  press  of  the  United  States, 
and  also  in  England,  have  been  so  thoroughly  endorsed  by 
the  public,  that  the  sale  has  exceeded  that  of  any  other 
volume  of  American  poetry  published  within  the  last  ten 
years.  The  Publishers  rejoice  that  it  is  in  their  power  to 
present  a  second  volume  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Watson,  en- 
titled "The  Outcast  and  Other  Poems,"  which  they  are 
very  confident  will  be  not  less  acceptable  and  popular  than 
the  former.  These  poems,  indeed,  may  be  considered  as 
the  fruit  of  Mr.  Watson's  maturer  fancy  and  judgment,  and 
will  touch  not  less  sensitively  than  the  others  the  sympa- 
thy and  home  affections  of  all  classes  of  readers. 

10 


THE     OUTCAST. 

r  I  ^HE  night  was  dark,  and  dank,  and  drear;  the 

wind  blew  bitter  cold ; 
The  sleety  snow,  with  every  gust,  became  more  fierce 

and  bold ; 
The   yellow   gas,   through    iceclad   panes,  along   the 

pavement  lay, 
And   all   the   glory   of   the   street   had   passed   with 

night  away ; 
In   dabbled   heaps,  with   mud  and   filth,  the  cutting 

snowdrops  lie, 
And  only  cheerless,  shivering  forms  rush    bent  and 

hurried  by. 

21 


22  THE    OUTCAST. 

I  labored  on  with  chosen  steps  and  head  bowed  to 

the  gale, 
When  suddenly,  from  out  the  storm,  there  came  a 

droning  wail. 
I  stopped  like  one  when  spoken  to,  and  listened  to 

the  sound, 
And  then,  responsive  to  the  moan,  looked  fearfully 

around : 
I   saw  a   man,   who   cowering    stood,    in   rags    both 

scant  and  thin, 
Force  moaning,  wailing  notes  from  out  a  wretched 

violin. 

I  marvelled   much  to  see  him  choose  so  bleak,   so 

dark  a  place, 

And  sought,  with  curious  scrutiny,  to  peer  into  his  face  : 
A    moment's    glance   the   tale   revealed,   his    staring 

eyes  were  dim — 
All   depths   of  darkness,    light   and   shade,  all   were 

alike  to  him — 


THE    OUTCAST.  23 

Blind  wanderer  on  a  glorious  earth,  the  sunshine  or 

the  storm 
Were   one   to   him   when   he   could    keep   his    aged 

body  warm. 

And  so   I   stood  before  the  blast  and  hearkened  to 

the  song, 
While  well-clothed,  thoughtless,  hurrying  men  went 

rapidly  along : 

I  heard  that  wretched  violin  tell  all  its  screed  of  woe, 
In  words  as  plain  as  man  could  speak,  to  the  ques- 
tions of  the  bow; 

I  heard  the  story  of  a  life,  a  life  with  clouds  o'ercast, 
The    sighs,   the   tears,   the   bitter   moans    for   all    the 
bitter  past. 

I   once,   it    said,   had    friends   and    home,   a   wife   and 

children  fair, 
A    home    of   peace    and    happiness,    for    love    dwelt 

always  there ; 


24  THE    OUTCAST. 

And  who  on  all   the  earth  could   make  a  little  go 

so  far 
As    she,    the    Mary   of   my   love,    my    life's    bright 

guiding  star? 
Then    I   was    cheerful,   hale   and    strong,    and    work 

came  freely  in — 
I  never  sang  a  song  of  woe  through  you,  my  violin. 

When  children  came  to  bless  our  hearth,  the  neigh- 
bors far  and  near 

Declared  they  were  the  best  they'd  seen  for  many 
and  many  a  year; 

They  grew  so  fresh  and  rosy,  and  so  cunning  in 
their  ways, 

That  I  and  Mary  stood  full  oft  and  watched  them 
in  amaze. 

I  saw  them  all— four  sweet-faced  girls — grow  up  to 
womanhood ; 

I  felt  that  they  were  beautiful — I  knew  that  they 
were  good. 


THE    OUTCAST.  2$ 

The  first  that  left  us,  Abigail,  passed  off  one  sum- 
mer morn, 

When  all  the  air  was  filled  with  life,  the  fields  with 
ripening  corn. 

She  had  been  failing  many  months,  but  hope  held 
to  the  last; 

We  could  not  think  our  darling  gone  until  the  hour 
was  past. 

It  was  the  first  great  chastening  blow  that  fell  upon 
my  head, 

When  Abigail,  my  firstborn  child,  was  numbered 
with  the  dead. 

The  next  was  Hannah — she  so  young,  so  thought- 
less and  so  gay. 

I  left  her  in  the  field,  one  noon,  among  the  new- 
made  hay; 

Within  an  hour  the  girl  was  gone;  they  sought  her 
high  and  low, 

And  soon  they  brought  my  child  to  me — O  God ! 
what  dreadful  woe ! 


26  THE    OUTCAST. 

They  took  her  from  the  river's   bed,  and  from  her 

pallid  lips 
The  fearful  death-slime  came  away  in  slowly-oozing 

drips. 

Then   Mary,   with    her    golden    hair,   and    skin    like 

tinted  pearl, 
She  looked  so  like  her  mother  did,  when  she  was 

but  a  girl. 

So  angel-like  our  Mary  seemed,  so  angel-like  from  birth, 
That  many  a  time  my  whispering  heart  would  doubt 

her  of  the  earth. 
One  day  it  pleased  her  God  to  call  our  angel  to  his 

throne, 
And  Mary's  mother  and  myself  were  left  once  more 

alone. 

No !  not  alone,  there  still  was  one,  a  wanton,  wan- 
dering child, 

A  truant  from  our  homely  hearth,  by  false  sworn 
love  beguiled. 


THE    OUTCAST.  2J 

We  sought  by  every  wile  we  knew  to  win  her  back 

again, 
But   guilty   love   was    strong   enough   to    make    our 

prayers  in  vain. 
We  heard  but  little  after  this,  but  when  we  did,  we 

plead 
With   God   to  take  the  nameless   one — much   better 

she  were  dead. 

Since  Mary,  who  for  forty  years  I  never  knew  to  frown ; 

Since  Mary,  she  who  shared  my  cross,  has  gone  to 
wear  her  crown ; 

Since  God  was  pleased  to  take  the  light  of  day 
from  out  mine  eyes, 

I've  pondered  on  the  memory  with  weary,  wasting 
sighs ; 

And  oh !  I  would  it  were  his  will  to  hear  my  voice- 
less cry, 

That  I  might  feel  the  nameless  one  once  more 
before  I  die ! 


28  THE    OUTCAST. 

The   music   changed,   with   one   deep    sob,    into   the 

tones  of  prayer, 
So     mournfully,     so    pleadingly,    upon    the    cutting 

air: 
A  woman  dressed  in  drabbled  robes  went  flaunting 

idly  by, 
With   painted   cheeks   and   bloodless   lips,  with   dim 

and  sunken  eye. 
She  stopped  and  turned  her  ill-clad  back  upon  the 

whistling  blast, 
And  listened  with  an  eager  air  unto  the  very  last. 

The  music  ceased,  the  woman   reached   toward   the 

blind  old  man ; 
She  stooped  her  head  with  starting  eyes,  she  clenched 

her  hands  and  ran; 
But  suddenly,  with  faltering  steps,  she  tottered  back 

again, 
And  stood  as  though  her  gasping  lips  were  seeking 

words  in  vain. 


THE    OUTCAST.  2Q 

A    moment    thus    I    watched    the    two,    the    man's 

unconscious  form ; 
The   woman    bent   and    kissed    his    hand,   then    fled 

into  the  storm. 


THE    OLD    MUSICIAN. 

[A  few  weeks  ago  an  aged  mendicant  died  at  New  Orleans.  On 
his  deathbed  he  stated  that  he  had  been  in  his  day  a  musician ;  that 
he  had  occupied  a  distinguished  place  among  the  musicians  of  one  of 
Napoleon's  military  bands ;  and  that  his  execution  had  frequently  at- 
tracted attention  from  the  Great  Man  himself.  He  said  much  more 
which  was  very  interesting  in  reference  to  his  past  life,  but  death 
interrupted  his  revelations.  He  had  lived,  it  seems,  for  many  years  in 
New  Orleans  in  great  poverty  and  privation,  with  no  other  companion 
than  his  violin.] 

T3  AISE  up  my  head. 

Enough:  I  see  and  hear  all  I  would  wish  to 

know. 

And  so  they  say  that  I  must  die,  and  call  me  old ! 
They  know  not  what  is  age  who  call  me  old. 
Age  must  be  counted  by  the  loss  of  fire,  not  years ; 
Not  by  the   weariness   of  limb,  not  by  the   dimness 

of  the  eye. 

Quick!   raise  up  my  head;   give  me  my  violin; 
And  stand  you  silent  while  I  tear  your  hearts. 

\Plays. 

30 


THE    OLD   MUSICIAN.  3! 

There  is  my  solo  in  the  key  of  G ; 

The  last  six  notes  were  heard  by  Mozart : 

He  declared  them  worthy  of  a  crown — so  think  I. 

And  now  my  wordless  song.  [Plays. 

I  sang  this  song 

Before  the  Emperor — before  Napoleon, 
When  in  the  flush  of  power ;  and  he  did  bow  to  me, 
And  sent  me  from  his  own  great  hand  this  ring — 
This  diamond  ring.     Where  is  my  diamond  ring? 
Ah  me !    I  did  forget  they  took  my  ring. 
Ah !  yes,  they  took  my  ring — for  rent. 
Well,  well !    it   is   but  empty  honor ;  none   can   take 

my  song. 

/ 
Now,  am  I  old  ?     Hear  this,  my  symphony  in  F  ? 

[Plays. 

This,  too,  before  an  Emperor,  the  Czar.     He  gave 
Me  smiles,  and  sent  a  snuff-box  by  an  equerry : 
A  snuff-box  blazing  with  a  score  of  gems, 
And  on  the  lid  a  limning  of  his  face. 

Ah !   'twas  a  cunning  box.     I  have  it  now — 

B 


32  THE    OLD  MUSICIAN. 

In  memory.     I  did  not  sell  it  till  I  wanted  bread, 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  for  Adele. 
Not  know  Adele  ?     She  was  my  pupil ;  in  the  world 
Is  known  as —     I  will  not  call  her  name. 

Too  well  you  know  her;  she  has  made  the  cities 
ring 

With  shout  and  bravos.     Ah !  such  a  register ! 

Rossini  wrote —     Wait;  let  me  see — what  did 

Rossini  write  for  her  ?     She  loves  me,  and  she  sang 

My  Opera.     That  was  a  night  of  nights ; 

When  I,  well  hidden  from  the  public  gaze, 

Would  watch  my  pupil  sing  the  breathings  of  my 
heart ! 

Yes !  they  found  me.  Ha !  ha !  me,  the  poor  mu- 
sician ! 

And  then  they  bore  me  forth,  and  stood  me  on  the 
stage 

Before  ten  thousand  eyes,  and  covered  me  with 
flowers. 


THE    OLD  MUSICIAN.  33 

Ay !   and  she  kissed  me — Adele  kissed  me — 
Kissed  me  there  before  the  envious  crowd, 
Dukes,  lords  and  nobles  would  have  given  wealth 
And    titles    to    have    been    the    kissed.      Where    is 

Adele  ? 
She  knows  not  of  me  now.     She  thinks  that  I  am 

rich, 
And  I — will  not  seek  her  to  beg. 

Here  is  a  sonata 

I  composed  for  her.     Beranger  did  me  great  honor 
When  he  heard  those  bars,  from  thence  to  thence, 
By  asking  from  my  pen  a  copy.     Then  he  gave 
To  me  a  song,  a  deathless  song,  that  I  might  wed 
The  music  of  its  words  to  sound.     Hark !    I  play. 

[Plays. 

Now,  am  I  old  ?     Is  my  arm  palsied  ? 
Is  my  blood  weak?     Must  I  die?     Is  there  no  fire 

in  me? 
Oh !  false  prophets !   raise  me  up  quickly ! 


34  THE    OLD   MUSICIAN. 

Where  is  my  wealth  and  honor  ?     Where  is  Adele  ? 
Lay  on  my  breast  the  star  that  Austria  gave. 
Where  is  the  gold  I  won  in  England?      Where  are 

the  plaudits 
That  I  won  in  France?     Where  is  my  violin? 

And  am  I  blind  ? 

\ 
Could   I    not   tell   my   own   loved  violin   before    my 

eyes  ? 
Hark !   I  will  play  a  scena  from  my  Opera. 

[Attempts  to  play. 

Oh,  vain !  my  hand  fails  in  its  endeavor ;  but 
My  ear  deceives  me  not.  I  still  know  time ; 
Perhaps — I  soon  shall  know  eternity. 

Why  is  it  dark? 
Why  do  I  hear  your  sobs  no  longer?     Is  the  world 

hushed  ? 
Am  I  dead?     Am  I  dead?     Dead? 


NELLY— SWEET   NELLY   BROWN 

r  I  ^HERE  is  life  in  the  breath  of  the  morning, 

Ere  the  hum  of  the  cricket  is  done, 
When  the  low  of  the  cows  is  a  warning 

That  I  must  be  up  with  the  sun ; 
For  the  sun  is  a  loitering  sluggard 

To  the  maid  with  the  homespun  gown  ; 
She  is  calling  the  cows  from  the  meadow — 

Nelly,  sweet  Nelly  Brown  ! 

They  may  laugh  when  1  say  that  I  love  her — 
They  may  laugh,  if  they  like  it,  at  me : 

Must  I  think  of  myself  as  above  her, 
Because  I  am  richer  than  she  ? 

I  shall  think  of  my  sunburnt  lady 
As  I  would  if  she  wore  a  crown, 

35 


36  NELLY— SWEET  NELLY  BROWN. 

And  be  neartily  glad  that  I  love  her — 
Nelly,  sweet  Nelly  Brown  ! 

She  is  calling  the  cows  with  a  ringing 

That  is  meant  for  the  cows,  and  for  one 
Who  has  helped  her  so  often  in  bringing 

The  pails  when  the  milking  was  done. 
But  the  time  it  is  rapidly  coming 

When  the  maid  with  the  homespun  gown 
Will  be  mine — only  mine !  and  no  longer 

Nelly,  sweet  Nelly  Brown  ! 


DARLING    DORA    M'lLVAINE 

r  I  ^HE  rain  fell  softly  on  the  grass, 

Ah  me !  the  summer  rain ; 
I  waited  for  the  storm  to  pass, 

The  sun  to  shine  again ; 
Ah  me !  the  treacherous  rain ; 
Will  the  sun  e'er  shine  again  ? 

While  I  stood  beneath  the  shed, 
Listening  to  each  pattering  drop, 

Wondering  when  the  clouds  o'erhead 
Would  think  it  time  to  stop, 

I  saw  her  running  down  the  lane, 

Flying  from  the  summer  rain. 

87 


398737 


38  DARLING  DORA   M'lLVAINE. 

I 

Saw  who  ?     Why,  Dora  M'llvaine, 
Woe  is  me!  that  fatal  day, 

Watching  in  the  summer  rain 
For  the  storm  to  pass  away. 

Years  will  glide  too  slowly  by 

Ere  I  lose  that  memory. 

Darling  Dora  M'llvaine, 

Seven  minutes,  by  the  clock, 

Did  I  beg,  and  beg  in  vain, 
For  one  single  chestnut  lock : 

Dora,  Dora,  'twas  to  me 

All  of  an  eternity! 

I  have  seen  some  maidens  fair 
Skilled  to  win  a  trusting  heart, 

I  have  seen  some  chestnut  hair 
Braided  with  a  wondrous  art: 

Chestnut  hair  and  hazel  eyes 

Is  not  where  the  magic  lies. 


DARLING  DORA   APILVAINE.  39 

Never  till  that  summer  day, 

As  I  watched  the  falling  rain, 
Had  I  seen  that  little  fay, 

Darling  Dora  M'llvaine; 
Never  since  that  summer  rain 
Heard  of  Dora  M'llvaine. 

Love  is  counted  not  by  years, 
Dora,  Dora ;   well  we  know 

Lovers'  vows  and  lovers'  tears 

i 
Are  the  things  of  long  ago. 

In  these  fast  magnetic  times 
Dallying  love  is  worst  of  crimes. 

Twenty  golden  minutes  fly 

While  she  made  my  soul  rejoice 

With  the  laughter  of  her  eye, 
With  the  music  of  her  voice ; 

Hazel  eyes  and  teeth  of  pearl, 

Dora  was  a  pretty  girl. 


•4O  DARLING  DORA    M'lLVAINE. 

Dora  was  but  sweet  thirteen, 
Half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 

Childlike  grace  and  haughty  mien, 
Free  and  guarded,  coy  and  wild ; 

Such  a  winsome  woman-fay 

Never  saw  I  till  that  day. 

Dora!  time  and  space  has  passed, 
I  shall  never  see  thee  more ; 

When  our  lots  in  life  were  cast, 

* 

We  were  placed  on  either  shore. 
Never  shall  we  meet  again, 
Darling  Dora  M'llvaine ! 


TO-NIGHT. 


I  lift  a  flowing  glass, 
The  wine  shall  touch  my  quivering  lip; 
It  shall  not  flow  to  drown  the  past, 
But  on  its  spell  I'll  cling  and  sip, 
Or  think  within  its  shady  hues 
A  spirit  laves  in  pearly  light, 
And  bids  a  joyous  laugh  to-night. 

To-night  I  will  remember  all  — 

All  that  is  worth  a  kindly  thought; 

The  hours  the  wing  of  sorrow  swept, 
The  lessons  that  her  broodings  taught, 

Shall  mingle  in  a  glowing  train 

With  gems  so  deeply,  purely  bright, 
I  could  not  help  but  laugh  to-night. 

41 


42  TO-NIGHT. 

To-night  no  stranger  hand  shall  clasp 
The  fevered  throbbings  of  my  own, 

Nor  pledge  me  in  the  brimming  cup — 
I  drink,  and  dream,  and  think  alone. 

No  friendly  eye  shall  look  in  mine, 

Lest  they  might  think  the  dimming  sight 
Betrayed  my  will  to  laugh  to-night. 


MY    DARLING   JOSEPHINE. 

'  I  ""HE  stars  are  countless  in  the  skies, 

The  earth  a  flood  of  light ; 
The  cream-white  moon  in  beauty  flies 

Along  the  path  of  night; 
I  sit  alone,  but  not  alone : 

A  spirit  all  unseen 
Has  to  my  welcome  bosom  flown — 

My  darling  Josephine. 

Fast  fly  the  fairy- footed  days, 

That  meteor-like  go  by, 
When  I  can  on  her  beauty  gaze, 

And  feast  my  hungry  eye. 
What  refuge  has  my  longing  breast 

In  all  the  hours  between, 


44  MY  DARLING    JOSEPHINE. 

But  clasping  as  a  spirit-guest 
My  darling  Josephine? 

So  shall  she  be  my  honored  guest 

When    sleep   departs  from  me, 
And  when  my  dreaming  stands  confessed 

My  queen  of  dreams  shall  be. 
By  night,  by  day,  by  sun,  by  shade, 

I'll  homage  pay  my  queen, 
And  bless  the  happy  hour  that  made 

Me  love  sweet  Josephine. 


GONE    TO     SEA. 

r  I  "HERE  sailed  a  brig  of  a  thousand  tons, 
Yo !    heave  merrily,  O  ! 
She  was  pierced  for  the  carriage  of  twenty  guns, 

Yo  !   heave  merrily,  O  ! 
Her  pennons  were  set,  and  the  wind  was  fair, 

And  the  brig  swept  out  with  the  ebbing  tide, 
And  every  eye  of  the  hundreds  there 
Watched  her  sail  with  a  swelling  pride. 

Yo  !   heave  merrily,  O  ! 

The  mother  has  bidden  her  son  farewell, 

Yo  !   heave  merrily,  O  ! 

4 

She  smothers  the  tear  as  she  hears  them  tell — 
Yo  !    heave  merrily,  O  ! — 

45 


46  GONE    £0   SEA. 

That  the  brig  is  as  stanch  as  stanch  can  be; 

That  her  men  are  picked  for  a  fearless  crew; 
And  so  she  is  standing  and  smiling  to  see 

The  glorious  brig  that  seaward  flew. 

Yo !    heave  merrily,  O  ! 

The  brig  has  rolled  in  the  white  sea-wave, 

Yo  !   heave  terribly,  O  ! 
Her  timbers  are  tough,  and  her  crew  are  brave, 

Yo  !   heave  terribly,  O  ! 

But  the  winds  were  sweeping  the  face  of  the  deep, 
While  the  waters  gaped  for  the  staggering  craft ; 
And  down  they  went  to  their  endless  sleep, 

While  the  storm  above  them  howled  and  laughed. 
Yo  !    heave  terribly,  O  ! 

What  one  of  all  that  wondering  crowd, 

Yo  !   heave  terribly,  O  ! 
i 
Who  sang  the  song  of  the  brig  aloud, 

Yo  !   heave  terribly,  O  ! 


GONE    TO   SEA.  47 

Hath  bidden  his  friend  the  long  farewell — 
The  word  he  would  speak  before  they  died — 

The  day  he  watched  the  waters  swell, 

And,  the  brig  sweep  out  with  the  ebbing  tide  ? 

Yo  !   heave  terribly,  O  ! 
c 


OUT   ON    A    BOUNDLESS    SEA 

"T)O  ATM  AN,  whither  flies  our  vessel? 
See,  the  shore  grows  far  and  dim ; 
While  about  us  monsters  wrestle 

As  they  through  the  darkness  swim. 
Boatman,  speak — the  night  is  chilling, 
Cold  is  sad,  and  silence  killing." 

"  Mortal !  in  this  darkness  tremble. 

Time  has  been,  but  is  no  more. 
Cease  to  with  your  soul  dissemble ; 

You  have  left  yon  sunny  shore. 
Mortal,  though  your  soul  endeavor, 
You. have  left  yon  shore  for  ever." 

48 


OUT  ON  A   BOUNDLESS  SEA.  49 

"  Boatman !  fright  me  not  so  sadly  ; 
'Tis  but  one  short  hour  agone  • 
That  I  left  yon  shore  so  gladly, 

On  the  glassy  waters  borne. 
Boatman,  why  this  fearful  changing, 
All  my  pleasure-plans  deranging?" 

"  Mortal !  in  your  idle  scheming, 

Gave  you  not  the  helm  to  me  ? 
In  that  hour,  while  you  were  dreaming, 

I  have  steered  your  bark  to  sea. 
Learn  this  lesson  by  your  failing : 
Hold  the  helm  when  you  are  sailing." 

"  Boatman !  yet  a  moment  linger, 

Youth  and  manhood  both  are  gone ; 

Point  not  with  your  iron  finger 
Still  so  sad  and  sternly  on. 

Boatman,  to  my  prayer  respond 

Ere  we  meet  the  dark  beyond." 


SO  OUT  ON  A   BOUNDLESS  SEA. 

"  Mortal !  cease  thy  sad  bewailing, 

Death  is  waiting  there  for  thee  : 
Hear  you  not  his  ghostly  hailing 

Growing  nearer  o'er  the  sea? 
Had  you  saved  your  freight  this  morning, 
Now  you  would  not  fear  his  warning. 

"  From  your  bark  you  cast  rich  treasure 

Out  into  the  hungry  deep, 
All  that  you  might  lie  in  leisure — 

Lie  full  lapped  in  lazy  sleep. 
Wasted  jewels :  mortal,  ponder 
How  they'd  light  your  path  out  yonder." 


NIGHT    BURIAL    AT    SEA. 

r  I  "^HE  dim  lamp  swings  in  the  dingy  hold 

To  the  ravings  of  the  storm, 
And  the  waves  are  waiting  to  enfold 

A  soldier's  lifeless  form : 
They  are  lifting  their  snow-white  fingers  up, 

Like  spirits  of  the  night, 
And  they  dance  and  beckon  to  our  ship 

To  stay  her  onward  flight. 

The  stars  are  dimmed  with  a  flying  cloud, 

The  ship  goes  heaving  past, 
A  corse  lies  wrapped  in  i'ts  homely  shroud, 

And  the  night  is  going  fast. 
We  have  stretched  the  flag  he  has  died  to  serve 

Over  his  quieted  heart, 

51 


52  NIGHT  BURIAL  AT  SEA. 

And  here,  with  our  heads  uncovered  and  bent, 
We  silently  stand  apart. 

We  stood  but  a  few  short  hours  agone 

By  that  dying  soldier's  bed — 
A  blanket,  battle- stained  and  worn — 

While  a  knapsack  pillowed  his  head. 
A  rough  board  under  his  fleshless  limbs, 

And  a  stranger  hand  for  nurse; 
His  requiem  sang  by  the  beating  waves, 

A  smothered  groan  or  a  curse. 

The  lanterns  swung  in  the  dismal  hold 

As  the  life-tide  ebbed  away, 
And  the  dim  eyes  closed  to  open  no  more 

Till  the  resurrection-day. 
He  is  deaf  to  the  sound  of  his  comrade's  voice 

When  he  shouts  his  name  in  his  ear, 
And  a  soul  drifts  out  on  the  stormy  tide, 

While  the  clay-cold  corse  lies  here. 


NIGHT  BURIAL   AT  SEA.  53 

We  wrapped  his  gaunt  and  rigid  limbs 

In  the  blanket's  scanty  fold, 
And  we  bore  our  strange,  mysterious  load 

Away  from  the  noisome  hold. 
The  midnight  stars  look  down  on  the  form 

That  lies  on  the  gangway  plank, 
And  rolls  to  the  rolling  of  the  ship 

And  the  engine's  heavy  clank. 

And  there  we  gathered,  a  silent  group, 

To  wait  for  the  last  sad  rite, 
And  thought,  as  we  looked  on  the  lifeless  mass, 

Of  a  saddening  second  sight — 
Of  his  far  New  England,  yearning  home ; 

Of  the  love  that  waits  in  vain, 
And  never  shall  clasp  that  soldier  form 

To  its  beating  breast  again. 

Waiting — the  waves  are  waiting  still 
To  seize  their  promised  prey ; 


54  NIGHT  BURIAL  AT  SEA. 

But  the  good  ship  madly  flings  them  back 
As  she  cleaves  her  onward  way; 

And  the  words  of  hope  rise  clearly  up 
Over  the  din  without, 

Stilling  the  storm  in  our  aching  hearts, 
And  stilling  our  every  doubt. 

A  pause — we  wait  in  silent  awe — 

.    Then  lifting  the  shrouded  clay, 

With  a  sullen  plunge  and  a  heavy  splash, 

We  cast  the  load  away. 
The  ship  goes  staggering  on  her  route, 

The  winds  scream  wild  and  free, 
But  the  corse  of  a  soldier  brave  and  true 

Lies  down  in  the  depths  of  the  sea — 

Lies  down  in  the  depths  of  the  troubled  sea, 

With  the  dwellers  of  the  deep, 
To  rise  when  the  last  great  trump  shall  sound 

To  waken  him  from  his  sleep. 


NIGHT  BURIAL  AT  SEA.  55 

No  stone  to  mark  where  the  lifeless  clay 

Is  clasped  in  the  hissing  foam, 
But  his  monument  stands  in  the  loving  hearts 

Of  his  far  New  England  home. 


DEATH   RIDES   ON  THE  EASTERN 
WIND. 

T7ROM  the  gates  of  Teheran,  from  Ispahan's  walls, 

Like  a  king  from  a  mouldering  throne, 
The  terrible  sound  of  his  footstep  falls 
Through  the  Tartar  tent  and  the  Persian  halls, 
And  the  Orient  echoes  back  the  calls 
Of  the  monarch  claiming  his  own. 

With  his  ghastly  spear  upraised  to  the  sky, 

At  the  solemn  whirr  of  his  wing 
The  nations  despair  as  he  hurries  him  by, 
For,  however  they  wrestle,  however  they  fly, 
The  richest  and  poorest  must  surely  die 

In  the  path  of  the  spectral  king. 

56 


DEATH  RIDES  ON  THE  EASTERN  WIND.          $7 

In  vain  are  the  edicts  of  earthly  kings, 
In  vain  are  the  sword  and  the  spear; 

The  wave  of  his  weapon  a  pestilence  flings, 

\ 
And  a  merciless  poison  distills  from  his  wings, 

Till  even  the  savage  his  death-dirge  sings 
Wherever  his  minions  appear. 

In  his  train  come  as  servitors,  cringing  and  base, 

Intemperance,  Gluttony,  Crime, 
Who  follow  the  king  with  a  staggering  pace, 
Who  sing  of  their  deeds  with  a  brazen  face, 
And  scatter  their  ruin  on  every  race 

To  the  chant  of  their  horrible  rhyme. 

From  the  glut  of  the  kennels,  the  mould  of  the  walls, 

From  the  rime  of  the  breath-stifling  drain, 
The  voice  of  the  king  in  his  majesty  calls 
The  spirits  of  death,  in  their  shadowless  palls — 
From  each  den  where  the  light  of  the  day  never  falls— 
To  join  in  his  pestilent  train. 


58         DEATH  RIDES  ON  THE  EASTERN  WIND. 

From  the  stagnant  miasm  that  lives  in  decay, 
From  the  poisonous  breath  of  the  swamp, 

From  the  vermin-cursed  dwelling  that  lies  by  the  way, 

From  the  prison  and  vault  where  the  green  lizards  play, 

He  gathers  the  ministers  day  by  day, 
To  aid  in  his  kingly  pomp. 

Though  fierce  on  his  path  roll  the  bottomless  seas, 

For  a  thousand  miles  between, 
Though  a  nation  be  pleading  afar  on  its  knees, 
The  hands  that  are  lifted  he  scorns,  if  he  sees, 
And  he  sweeps  on  his  path  with  the  seaward  breeze, 

Till  they  never  more  are.  seen. 

From  the  Arctic  Sea  to  the  Torrid  Zone 

He  reigns  as  a  king  supreme; 
All  climes,  all  nations,  all  lands  are  his  own, 
His  sweetest  of  sounds  is  a  shriek  or  a  groan, 
And  the  earth  is  a  desert  when  once  he  has  flown, 

And  his  memory  only  a  dream. 


DEATH  RIDES  ON  THE  EASTERN  WIND.          59 

Hail,  king  of  the  world  from  the  Eastern  shore ! 

Hail,  monarch  in  ghastliness  dressed ! 
Our  soil  has  been  drenched  with  unbrotherly  gore; 
Must  we  yield  to  thy  clutch  a  hecatomb  more, 
Ere  the  cry  of  the  blood-chastened  land  shall  be  o'er, 

And  we  sink  into  peaceful  rest  ? 


REAL    CHRISTMAS    ANGELS. 

T  'M  a  very  plain  and  homely  man, 

Just  a  leetle  old  or  so, 
And  the  rheumatiz  troubles  me,  off  and  on, 

Whether  I  will  or  no ; 
And  so,  whenever  that  comes  to  pass, 

It  drives  me  a'most  in  a  craze, 
To  think  of  the  lots  of  time  I  lose — 
The  many  working  days. 

For  my  old  woman,  Meg,  and  I, 

Agree  on  this,  d'ye  see, 
That  I  shall  be  sick  when  she  is  well, 

And  I  be  well  when  she; 
For  it's  little  of  work  that  she  can  do, 

When  well  or  ill,  for  bread, 

60 


REAL    CHRISTMAS  ANGELS.  6 1 

Yet  many  a  stitch  her  fingers  take 
From  sunrise-time  till  bed. 

And  so  'tis  no  disgrace  to  us, 

With  the  rheumatiz  and  all, 
That  sometimes  Meg,  for  hunger's  sake, 

Should  have  to  pawn  her  shawl ; 
But  then  'tis  woeful  hard  to  me, 

When  the  winter  nights  are  cold, 
For  I  miss  the  shawl  on  my  old  legs — 

If  the  words  be  not  too  bold. 

Yet  Meg  and  I  get  somehow  on, 

For  poverty  isn't  a  crime, 
And  we  never  think  nothing  about  it 

Until  it  comes  Christmas-time ; 
For  we  have  a  memory,  Meg  and  I, 

Of  a  Christmas  long  ago, 
When  we  both  were  strong  and  hearty. 

And  never  knew  want  or  woe. 


62  REAL   CHRISTMAS  ANGELS. 

And  so  it  happens  that  Meg  and  I 

Have  been  waiting  in  hope  and  fear, 
To  see  if  the  Christmas  coming 

Will  be  like  the  one  last  year; 
For  then  we  were  all  right  happy, 

Meg  and  the  neighbors  and  I, 
And  the  very  remembrance  of  it 

Is  enough  to  make  one  cry. 

It  was  all  on  the  Christmas  morning, 

When  we  hadn't  a  loaf  of  bread, 
And  Meg  and  I,  to  keep  life  in, 

Were  obliged  to  go  to  bed. 
The  shawl  it  was  in  the  pawn-shop, 

And  we  hadn't  a  cent — not  we — 
So  we  thought  it  the  hardest  Christmas 

We  ever  had  chanced  to  see. 

Meg  sat  in  the  bed  a-sewing, 
I  reading  the  Bible  to  she, 


PEAL    CHRISTMAS  ANGELS.  63 

When  there  came  at  the  door  a  tapping, 
Like  a  woodpecker  tapping  a  tree. 

Meg  cried  for  the  knock  to  enter, 
And  a  rosy  face  peeped  in, 

With  hazel  eyes  and  clustering  curls, 
White  teeth  and  a  dimpled  chin. 

There  was  sunshine  in  a  moment 

To  break  away  the  gloom, 
And  a  voice  like  an  angel's  whisper 

Went  sweetly  through  the  room. 
It  said,  "Accept  this  turkey. 

Some  potatoes  and  coal,  if  you  please ; 
It  is  merry  Christmas  Day, 

And  no  one  must  starve  or  freeze." 

Oh !   wasn't  Meg  up  directly ! 

But  the  angel  had  vanished  in  air, 
And  a  stout  man  stood  with  a  bushel  of  coal, 

And  the  turkey  it  lay  on  a  chair. 


64  REAL    CHRISTMAS  ANGELS. 

And  didn't  we  have  a  feast 
In  a  good  old-fashioned  way, 

And  wasn't  we  warm  and  jollily  fed 
That  glorious  Christmas  Day ! 

So  that  is  my  tale  all  told — 

A  homely  tale  at  the  best — 
A  tale  that  Meg  and  I  repeat 

Each  night  when  we  go  to  rest. 
I  have  heard  of  angels  with  wings, 

Who  noiselessly  flit  through  the  air, 
But  the  angel  of  angels  that  we  like  best 

Left  a  turkey  upon  the  chair. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STORE. 

T    WAS  poring  over  my  ledger 

On  a  cold  November  day, 
And  counting  up  my  profits 

In  a  calculating  way. 
How  I  strove,  and  worried,  and  dreamed, 

And  dreamed,  and    talked,  and  swore, 
As  I  fought  the  fight  through  many  a  year— 

The  battle  of  the  store! 

I  was  thinking  it  over  and  over — 

The  per  cent.  I  should  lose  on  Brown, 

And  whether  I'd  sell  to  Smith  again 
Whenever  he  came  to  town ; 

And  whether  my  draft  on  Jones 
Would  trouble  me  any  more; 

65 


66  THE  BATTLE    OF  THE  STORE. 

And  so  I  went  fighting,  fighting  on, 
The  battle  of  the  store. 

I  was  poring  over  my  ledger 

On  a  cold  November  day, 
When  I  heard  a  voice  at  my  elbow, 

In  a  supplicating  way : 
"  Will  you  let  me  entreat  your  notice 

Toward  this  little  book  ? 
The  price  is  only  a  shilling; 

I  think  you  will  buy  if  you  look." 

I  turned  my  head  to  my  shoulder, 

To  a  figure  gaunt  and  gray, 
Whose  coat  was  shabby,  and  very  thin 

For  this  cold  November  day. 
He  had  every  look  about  him 

Of  a  room  in  a  dirty  street, 
With  a  smoky  fire  in  it, 

And  never  enough  to  eat. 


THE  BATTLE    OF  THE   STORE.  6? 

He  stood  at  my  elbow  humbly, 

And  stared  a  vacant  stare, 
While  I  took  his  book  with  a  business  smile, 

And  motioned  him  to  a  chair. 
For  somehow  in  the  ledger 

I  had  entered  that  old  man  gray, 
And  I  knew  I  should  find  the  entry 

At  no  far  distant  day. 

I  would  give  him  a  touch  of  nature, 

Forgetting  the  god  I  obeyed; 
So  I  gave  the  fire  a  goodly  stir, 

And  I  asked  him,  "  How  is  trade  ?" 
"  Ah  !  trade  is  very,  very  low, 

And  bread  and  meat  are  high ; 
And  the  weather  is  very,  very  cold — 

And  do  you  not  wish  you  could  die  ?" 

I  said  that  I  thought  I  was  willing  to  live, 
And  struggle  on  for  a  while ; 


68  THE  BATTLE    OF  THE  STORR.   . 

So  the  old  man  said  it  was  very  well, 

And  smiled  a  ghostly  smile; 
"  But  when  you  have  lived  as  I  have  lived, 

And  lost  as  I  have  lost, 
You  will  wish  for  death  as  the  only  rest 
That  is  left  for  the  tempest-fossed. 

"  It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

I  could  look  in  my  ledger  and  see 
The  names  of  my  debtors  in  every  land, 

And  my  ships  on  every  sea. 
I  sat  and  counted  the  loss  and  gain, 

As  'tis  counted  to-day  by  you, 
And  I  looked  on  my  God  and  my  love  of  truth 

In  a  business  point  of  view. 

"  I  have  seen  my  dream  of  gold  dispelled, 

My  friends  among  the  dead, 
And  the  name  that  stood  for  a  million  once 
Not  good  for  a  loaf  of  bread. 


BATTLE    OF  THE  STORE.  69 

I  have  lived  to  see  far  more  than  this — 

My  wife  and  my  children  fair 
Go  one  by  one  to  the  silent  land : 

They  tarry  for  me  there." 

He  ceased,  and  wiped  the  dropping  tears 

From  off  his  withered  face, 
Then  slowly  from  his  pocket  took 

A  strip  of  ragged  lace. 
He  kissed  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips, 

And  speaking  thick  and  fast, 
"  This  is  the  only  relic  left 

That  binds  me  with  the  past." 

O   sad  and  desolate  old  man, 

Thou  type  of  all  thy  race, 
Like  thee,  they  cling  unto  the  past 

By  bits  of  ragged  lace. 
Like  thee,  they  pace  the  dreary  round 

Of  pleasure  or  of  pain ; 


7O  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STORE. 

Like  thee,  they  dwell  upon  a  life 
They  would  not  live  again. 

Good-night,  thou  man  of  many  woes 

Come  not  again  to  me, 
For  1  have  debts  in  every  land, 

And  ships  on  every  sea; 
And  I  have  wife  and  children  fair; 

My  friends  are  not  yet  dead ; 
But  still  I'll  close  my  ledger  up, 

And  think  on  what  you've  said. 


DEBT. 

T    SAT  in  my  room  on  a  midnight  dreary, 

Counting  the  rain  on  the  roof; 
Hearing  the  roll  of  the  wheels  aweary, 

And  the  clank  of  the  horses'  hoof, 
Hearing  the  fall  of  the   distant  feet 
That  echoed  along  on  the  sleeping  street, 
And  the  hollow  song  of  a  roistering  rhyme 
Striking  in  with  the  clang  of  the  midnight  chime. 

I  sat  in  my  room  while  the  gas  burned  low 

On  the  dead-white  chamber  wall, 
While,  pale  and  haggard,  and  full  of  woe, 

And  strangely  lank  and  tall, 
A  stony  figure  in  silence  stands 
Watching  the  moves  of  my  trembling  hands — 

71 


72  DEBT. 

Watching  the  drop  of  my  weary  eye, 
With  a  dim,  grim  smile  at  my  every  sigh. 

I  gazed  at  this  figure  in  solemn  awe, 

This  spectre  so  gaunt  and  gray, 
Who  came  not  by  the  bolted  door, 

With  his  ghostly,  shadowy  way. 
I  saw  that  the  rags  on  his  shrunken  form 
Were  dripping  with  wet  from  the  midnight  storm  ; 
I  saw  him   shrivelled  with  pain  and  cold, 
And  his  face  looked  prematurely  old. 

With  a  shiver  of  dread  in  every  vein, 

I  spoke  to  this  man  of  stone ; 
And  every  word  he  spoke  again 
Were  the  echoes  of  my  own : 
"What  dost  thou  here  in  the  midnight  deep, 

When  the  world  is  wrapped  in  its  sweetest  sleep  ?" 
"  What  dost  thou  here  ?"   he  said  again 

o  f 

"  When  the  pillow  claims  thy  wearied  brain  ?" 


DEBT.  73 

"  What  art  thou,  thing  of  a  bloodless  life, 

Whose  presence  is  death  and  shame, 
Whose  every  word  is  the  stab  of  a  knife — 

What  is  thy  dreadful  name  ?" 
For  a  moment  flashed  his  eyes  in  light, 
Then  darkened  again,  as  in  endless  night: 
''  Whoever  shall  know,  shall  never  forget 
The  time  when  he  wore  the  chains  of  DEBT. 

"  W'hoever  shall  once,  in  a  thoughtless  way, 

Wear  those  golden  chains  for  me, 
Shall  labor  and  toil  for  many  a  day 

Before  his  limbs  are  free. 
At  first  my  chains  are  of  burnished  gold, 
And    worn  in  a  rich  and  gorgeous  fold ; 
But  they  grow  in  weight,  and  they  grow  in  size, 
With  every  speedy  hour  that  flies. 

"  But  I,  with  a  magic  all  my  own, 
Can  change  these  chains  of  gold  ; 


74  DEBT. 

I  can  turn  them  to  iron,  and  eat  the  done, 

And  gnaw  the  flesh  till  the  heart  grows  old; 
Till  the  clothes  shall  hang  in  a  filthy  shred, 
Till  the  eyes  shall  look  like  the  eyes  of  the  dead; 
Till  the  arm  shall  die  in  its  palsied  pain, 
And  the  blood  run  cold  in  each  icy  vein. 

"  Who  weareth  my  chains  shall  know  no  hope, 

Shall  crave  no  length  of  life — 
Shall  die  by  drug,  by  knife,  and  rope, 

Or  live  in  blood  and  strife." 
With  his  golden  chains  the  shape  drew  nigh : 
I  sprang  to  my  feet  with  a  shuddering  cry ; 
There  was   nothing   to    hear   but  the    swell  of  my 

scream, 
And  nothing  to  see  but  the  mist  of  a  dream. 


THE    CIRCUS    BOY. 

A   H  me !  how  memory  flashes  back 

Through  forty  years  of  time — - 
Through  hard,  prosaic,  epic  strains, 

And  pleasant-flowing  rhyme ! 
How,  after  half  a  century's  march, 

Leaning  on  Nature's  staff, 
I  look  me  back  along  the  road 
With  many  a  hearty  laugh  !— 

With   many  a  hearty  laugh  or  smile 
That  struggles  with  a  tear, 

For  many  a  moment  fraught  with  fate, 
And  many  a  memory  queer. 

I  gaze  upon  my  portly  form, 
My  well-filled  bankers'  book — 

75 


76  THE   CIRCUS  BOY. 

The  last  a  credit  to  my  thrift, 
The  former  to  my  cook. 

And  then  I  think  me  of  the  boy 

Of  half  a  score  years  old, 
Charmed,  as  a  man  is  ever  charmed, 

By  glitter  and  by  gold. 
How  my  ambition's  highest  height, 

My  gold  without  alloy, 
Reached  through  all  worldly  gifts  and  lore 

To  be  a  circus  boy. 

I  watched  him,  clad  in  silken  sheen, 

All  spangled  over  gold, 
Leap  gayly  on  his  gallant  steed, 

And  ride  away  so  bold ; 
I  saw  the  rude,  admiring  crowd 

Strain  all  their  eager  eyes ; 
I  heard  their  praises  fill  the  air, 

Their  plaudits  and  their  cries. 


THE   CIRCUS  BOY.  77 

I  saw  him  spring  through  painted  hoops, 

O'er  silken  banners  high ; 
With  beating  heart  I  watched  his  flight, 

And  many  an  envious  sigh. 
Here,  to  my  boyish  thought,  was  all 

That  earth  could  give  of  joy ; 
And  then  I  prayed  an  earnest  prayer 

To  be  a  circus  boy. 

Weeks  sped :   one  autumn  day  we  met ; 

My  memory  still  was  warm, 
His  face  was  graven  on  my  heart — 

Not  so  his  ill-clad  form. 
With  boyish  fire  I  clasped  his  hand, 

And  marked  his  sunken  eye ; 
No  more  the  roses  on  his  cheeks 

Provoked  an  envious  sigh. 

His  words  were  few,  but  oh  how  quick 
They  pierced  the  filmy  spell ! 


78  THE   CIRCUS  BOY. 

The  hard,  bold  voice,  the  reckless  tone, 

His  story  told  too  well: 
No  mother,  and  a  father  dead 

To  all  the  sense  of  shame; 
No  home  but  in  the  circus  tent, 

And  but  a  circus  name. 

At  night,  with  bitter,  blinded  heart, 

He  rode  his  gallant  roan  ; 
All  day,  half  fed  and  poorly  clad, 

He  moped  about  alone; 
At  night  the  thousands  cheered  him  on 

Through  peril  and  through  pain; 
All  day  he  craved  one  word  of  love, 

But  craved,  alas !   in  vain. 

Since  then  I've  looked  behind  the  scenes 

Of  many  a  ghastly  play; 
A  word,  a  look,  a  breath  of  life, 

Has  swept  the  gilt  away. 


THE    CIRCUS  BOY.  79 

But  never  through  these  forty  years 

Could  time  the  force  destroy 
Of  that  first  lesson  that  I  took, 

Taught  by  the  circus  boy. 

E 


GARIBALDI'S     ENTRY     INTO 
NAPLES. 

T  T  E  came !   not  with  the  pomp  of  state, 
With  bayonets  flashing  round  him ; 
But  in  the  broad  glare  of  the  day, 
Where  frantic  thousands  lined  the  way, 
And,  hopeful,  knelt  to  weep  and  pray, 
We  found  him. 

He  came !    not  as  a  conqueror  comes, 

With  rattling  drum  and  clashing  sabre, 
But  like  an  angel  from  the  skies, 
With  form  erect  and  flashing  eyes, 
He  stood,  clothed  in  the  simple  guise 
Of  labor. 

80 


GARIBALDI'S  ENTR  Y  INTO  NAPLES.  8 1 

He  came !   as  Heaven's  own  chosen  king, 

His  throne  a  trampled  nation, 
Claiming  no  power  but  such  as  came 
From  the  great  glory  of  his  name — 
No  weak  or  meretricious  fame, 
No  station. 

Out  rang  the  vivas  fierce  and  long, 
Made  louder  by  each  patriot's  wrong, 
And  manly  shout  joined  woman's  song, 
Where  Marinella's  half-crazed  throng 

Hailed  freed  Italia's  son. 
'Twas  noon,  high  noon,  along  the  way, 
And  sunlight  danced  upon  the  bay ; 
The  shouting  thousands  swayed  and  swung, 
A  hundred  bells  the  chorus  rung, 
And  Naples,  mad  from  fear  and  doubt, 
Screamed  forth  the  hero's  welcome  shout — 
Screamed  forth  the  hope  so  long  deferred 
With  every  long-forbidden  word  : 


82          GARIBALDPS  ENTR  Y  INTO  NAPLES. 

"  UNA — UNA — UNA — VIVA  ! 
DEATH  AND  HELL  TO  THE  DECEIVER  ! 
VOGLIAMO,  VIVA,  VIVA  ! 
GOD'S  GREAT  GRACE  TO  THE  ACHIEVER ! 

Calm  and  unmoved  amid  the  whole, 
With  eyes  that  shadowed  forth  the  soul, 

The  patriot  hero  stood. 
Cry  upon  cry  has  rent  the  air, 
But  still  the  selfsame  words  are  there : 

Viva  Garibaldi/ 
Una — vogliamo,  I  'Italia — una  ! 

Ni^ht  falls ;   the  deep-mouthed  cannons  boom 
Their  notes  of  freedom  through  the  gloom, 
And  from  a  thousand  hands  and  throats 
The  wildering  music  swells  and  floats. 
Along  the  gay  Toledo's  pave 
The  joy-mad  crowd  their  greetings  rave, 


GARIBALDI 'S  ENTR  Y  INTO  NAPLES.  8j 

And  banners  flash  upon  the  night, 
And  torches  shed  a  midday  light, 
Unveiling  every  hideous  sight. 
The  beggar  jostles  with  the  lord, 

The  master  with  the  man, 
The  wearer  breaks  the  tyrant's  sword, 

And  kisses  where  he  can. 
Still  high  above  the  crash  of  all, 

The  song  is  loud  and  clear — 
Above  the  cannon,  bells  and  shouts, 
It  breaks  upon  the  ear: 
Viva,  viva  Garibaldi, 
Voglianw,  r  Italia  ! 
Una — una — una — viva  ! 
God's  great  grace  to  the  Achiever. 

White-armed  women,  heaving-breasted, 

Fiery-eyed  and  voiced  aloud, 
Half  of  flowing  robes  divested, 

Wander  through  the  surging  crowd, 


84  GARIBALDI'S  ENTRY  INTO  NAPLES. 

Singing  loud, 
Viva,  viva  Garibaldi! 

Far  along  the  Marinella, 

Through  the  night  the  cries  still  ring, 
Echoed  from  Largo  Castello, 
To  the  palace  of  the  king, 
Still  they  ring, 
Fii>a,  viva  Garibaldi! 

Saver  of  his  native  land ; 
Vogliamo,  I  'Italia  ! 
Una — una — ima — viva  ! 


THE    TWELFTH    COMES    BACK 
TO-DAY. 

r  I  ^O-DAY,  up  yonder  turnpike-road, 
Past  clover  waiting  to  be  mowed, 
Past  fields  of  growing  grain, 
With  banners  waving  proud  and  high, 
And  music  singing  to  the  sky, 
The  Twelfth  comes  back  again. 

It  comes  with  all  its  record  clear 
To  write  its  history  on  the  year, 

Each  man  himself  a  brave; 
And  we,  forgetting  in  our  joy 
How  many  a  mother's  darling  boy 

Has  found  a  Southern  grave. 

85 


86  THE  TWELFTH  COMES  BACK  TO- DA  Y. 

Two  years  ago,  in  spring-time  bloom, 
From  out  the  shadow  of  this  room 

My  tear-dimmed  eyes  were  bent; 
The  Twelfth  went  marching  down  that  road, 
Each  casting  forth  his  own  heart-load, 

And  singing  as  he  went. 

That  day,  amid  the  wild  hurrah, 
There  softly  opened  yonder  door, 

And  in  came  one  alone  : 
He  looked  so  handsome  in  his  blue, 
And  in  his  eyes,  so  soft  and  true, 

A  light  unusual  shone. 

He  spoke  as  though  he  had  been  sent 
With  tidings  of  some  good  intent ; 

And  thus  the  message  ran : 
"  Maggie,  I  held  against  my  heart 
Till  now  a  false  and  selfish  part, 

And  failed  me  as  a  man. 


THE  TWELFTH  COMES  BACK  TO- DA  Y.  87 

"  This  morning,  in  the  ringing  shout, 
In  every  blast  the  band  sends  out, 

In  every  tap  of  drum, 
I  hear  the  voices  of  the  dead, 
The  echoes  of  their  ghostly  tread, 
Persuading  me  to  come. 

"  And  so  I've  donned  this  glorious  blue, 
And  come,  unsoiled,  to  speak  with  you, 

The  last  one  in  this  town. 
Maggie !  with  all  my  heart  and  soul 
I  love  you.     Maggie,  hear  the  whole, 

My  own !  before  you  frown. 

"  Since  those  bright  days  when  we  forsook 
The  sunny  road  for  some  lone  nook, 

And  conned  the  self-same  task, 
I've  loved  you,  Maggie,  true  and  long, 
But — be  it  right  or  be  it  wrong — 
My  heart  has  worn  a  mask. 


83     THE  TWELFTH  COMES  BACK  TO  DAY. 

"  I  knew  how  good  and  pure  you  were : 
'  I  can  do  naught  deserving  her,' 
My  faltering  heart-words  said. 
And  as  I  loved  years  sped  away, 
While  I,  to  see  thee  day  by  day, 
My  faltering  heart  obeyed. 

"  But,  Maggie,  with  this  morning's  light 
There  came  a  glorious  second-sight, 

A  vision  from  on  high ! 
It  said,  '  Your  heart's  delusion  quell, 
And  win  the  one  you  love  so  well. 

Hark !  to  your  country's  cry !' 

"  My  place  is  vacant  in  the  line, 
I  wait  but  for  a  single  sign, 

To  know  if  this  be  true ; 
I  wait  but  for  a  glance,  a  word, 
To  know  if  this  emotion  stirred 

Is  shared,  my  own,  by  you." 


THE  TWELFTH  COMES  BACK  TO-DAY.  89 

A  moment  more,  and  on  his  breast 
I  calmed  his  doubting  heart's  unrest, 

And  sped  him  on  his  way. 
Since  then  that  one  that  came  alone 
Has  made  me  feel  his  deeds  my  own, 

And  proudly  wait  to-day. 

Tis  I  that  now  must  doubter  be 
Until  I  know  he  still  loves  me, 

Since  he  has  grown  so  great. 
A  hero  coming  from  the  South, 
Whose  praise  is  full  in  every  mouth, 

Is  he  for  whom  I  wait. 


THE    WALTZ    OF    ANTIETAM. 

"How  do  you  like  the  new  waltz?"   I  was  asked  as  we  whirled 
away. 

"Beautiful!     What  is  it?" 

"  The  Antietam  Waltz,"  was  the  answer. 

OO  soon — ere  yet  the  life-blood  dries 

That  gushed  from  many  a  manly  breast, 
Ere  yet  the  cry  of  woe  is  o'er, 

And  ere  the  wearied  victors  rest 
Upon  their  bruised  and  battered  arms — 
The  harp  and  horn  have  gayly  pealed 
To  merry  groups  a  gladsome  air 
Of  red  Antietam's  field. 

Beneath  the  glare  of  myriad  lamps 

How  many  bosoms  softly  beat 

oo 


THE    WALTZ   OF  ANTIETAM.  91 

An  echo  to  the  mocking  air 

That  moves  the  facile  dancers'  feet! 

But  look  abroad  at  those  bereft 
Of  every  hope  and  living  shield; 

Their  hearts  lie  buried  with  the  dead 
Upon  Antietam's  field. 

I  would  not  stay  the  tide  of  mirth, 
Nor  stop  to  weep  amid  the  gladness, 

But  still  I'd  have  that  joyful  air 
Replaced  by  one  of  quiet  sadness. 

Upon  the  wind  were  other  sounds 

When  rushing  thousands  madly  reeled, 

With  shout  and  groan  and  deadly  blow, 
Upon  Antietam's  field. 

One  merry  whirl,  then  come  to  me 
And  let  me  tell  thee  tales  of  truth — 

How  the  strong  man  went  boldly  forth, 
In  all  the  confidence  of  youth, 


92  THE    WALTZ    OF  ANTIETAM. 

To  win  a  soldier's  name  and  fame; 

With  nervous  hand  and  bosom  steeled, 
He  sought  them  both  amid  the  fray 
Upon  Antietam's  field. 

He  fell,  with  torn  and  broken  limbs; 

Right  onward  swept  the  countless  throng; 
Trampled  beneath  the  horses'  feet, 

Or,  fainting,  borne  with  speed  along, 
Smeared  with  the  sand  and  clotted  gore, 

No  more  his  hand  the  weapons  wield ; 
He  gasps — he  staggers,  and  he  falls 
Upon  Antietam's  field. 

Oh,  well  it  were  no  mother's  eye 
Should  see  him  in  that  dreadful  hour, 

Howe'er  might  soothe  her  kindly  touch, 
However  healing  be  her  power! 

All  gashed  and  crushed,  with  starting  eyes, 
His  livid  features  half  revealed, 


THE     WALTZ   OF  ANTIETAM.  93 

He  lies,  a  mass  of  lifeless  dross, 

Upon  Antietam's  field. 

i 

Trace  with  the  limner's  magic  art 
The  deeds  we  term  unfading  glory, 

Or  weave  them  in  undying  song, 
Or  tell  them  in  immortal  story; 

Still  will  it  be  a  thrice-told  tale, 
A  truth  that  will  not  be  concealed, 

A  drama  acted  o'er  and  o'er 
Upon  Antietam's  field. 

Then  change  the  music  of  to-night, 

Or  bid  it  bear  some  other  name, 
And,  though  the  very  note  and  time, 

It  will  not  seem  or  sound  the  same ; 
And  if  through  many  a  weary  year 

Its  gaping  wounds  remain  unhealed, 
We'll  chase  from  memory  all  the  woe 
Of  red  Antietam's  field. 


MY    SERGEANT    OF    THE    GUARD 

T  T  ERE,  sergeant  of  the  light-horse  troop ! 

A  glass  of  eau  de  vie ; 
The  night  is  full  of  whistling  wind 

And  chill  as  chill  can  be. 
I  heaped  the  camp-fire  high  ablaze 

To  meet  thee  on  thy  round, 
And  I  will  be  thy  Ganymede — 
Thy  couch  shall  be  the  ground. 

I  like  your  looks,  my  sergeant  bold, 

Your  eye  that  never  quails ; 
Of  Lucknow  and  of  Inkermann 

I  like  your  soldier-tales; 
I  like  the  medals  on  your  breast, 

I  like  your  forehead  scarred; 

94 


MY  SERGEANT  OF  THE    GUARD.  95 

And  then — by  Jove  ! — I  like  your  beard, 
My  sergeant  of  the  guard. 

I  watched  you  in  the  battle-front, 

Where  shell  and  ball  flew  fast, 
When  many  a  brave  heart  stopped  appalled 

Before  the  iron  blast 
I  watched  your  careless  riding  in 

To  hack  and  hew  and  gash, 
And  said,  "  By  Jove !  I'll  live  to  see 

Him  wear  a  yellow  sash." 

Another  horn  of  eau  de  vie — 

The  first  was  not  so  large — 
Then  tell  me  of  the  ride  you  took 

At  Balaklava's  charge ; 
And  tell  me  how,  through  blood  and  smoke, 

You  fought  at  the  Redan, 
And  where,  when  fighting  hand  to  hand, 

You  found  the  better  man. 
F 


96  MY  SERGEANT  OF  THE    GUARD. 

"  Your  health,  my  captain ;   may  we  soon 

Ride  such  another  tilt; 
I  love  the  sound  of  clattering  hoofs 

And  swords  crossed  hilt  to  hilt. 
There's  music  in  the  bugle's  blare 

Beyond  the  scan  of  art; 
There's  glory  in  the  squadron's  rush 

To  fire  a  dying  heart. 

"  I've  fought  upon  a  score  of  fields, 

And  bloody  fields  were  they ; 
I've  rode  full  many  a  fearful  ride 

In  many  a  fearful  fray. 
At  Inkermann,  on  Alma's  field, 

And  at  the  great  Redan, 
I've  watched  with  jealous  eyes  and  ears 

To  find  the  better  man. 

"The  better  man  is  he  whose  heart 
Is  knitted  to  the  fight; 


MY  SERGEANT  OF  THE    GUARD.  97 

Whose  arm  is  clothed  in  conscious  strength 

From  striking  for  the  right ; 
Whose  blows,  my  captain,  hottest  fall 

Amid  the  deadliest  strife, 
Will  know  no  brother  that  is  foe 

To  liberty  and  life. 

He  marches  on  with  sturdy  steps, 

Still  singing  as  he  goes, 
His  country's  banner  in  the  breeze, 

To  flaunt  before  its  foes. 
Good  men  there  were  at  Inkermann, 

And  at  the  great  Redan, 
But,  ah !  they  lacked  the  strength  of  heart 

To  make  the  better  man. 

'  He  fights  to  save  the  glorious  land 

That  nurtured  him  from  birth ; 
He  fights  to  save  the  truest  flag 
That  ever  flew  on  earth. 


98  MY  SERGEANT  OF  THE    GUARD. 

His  only  thought  is  how  to  be 

For  ever  in  the  van ; 
And  this — whatever  be  his  creed — 

Is  still  the  better  man." 

Bravo,  my  sergeant  of  the  guard ! 

I'll  drink  a  health  to  thee, 
For  every  word  thou  say'st  to-night 

Are  words  of  gold  to  me. 
I  love  thy  tales  of  Inkermann, 

And  of  the  great  Redan, 
But  better  far  the  tale  thou'st  told 

About  the  better  man. 


THE    BALL    IS    UP. 

ball  is  up  at  the  Central  Park! 
Come,  gather  your  skates  and  away; 
There's  glorious  health  and  the  heart's  true  wealth, 

Out  on  the  ice  to-day. 
Ah !    now  I  see  your  flashing  eyes — 

The  ice  is  a  wonderful  spell — 
Yes,  she  is  there,  that  maid  so  fair, 
She  whom  you  love  so  well. 

You  loved  her,  when  to  the  harp  and  horn 

You  swung  her  in  the  dance; 
When  through  the  night,  by  the  crystal  light, 

You  watched  her  silent  glance. 
You  loved  her  when  you  held  her  hand 

And  saw  her  cheek  grow  pale ; 

99 


IOO  THE  BALL   IS   UP. 

The  night  when  first  your  courage  durst 
Breathe  forth  the  old,  old  tale. 

But  now  to-day,  when  the  ball  is  up, 

And  she,  the  loved  one,  there, 
The  blue  of  the  skies  will  blend  with  her  eyes, 

And  the  gold  of  the  sun  with  her  hair. 
Ah !   then  you  will  love  her  twice  as  much 

As  ever  you  did  before ; 
That  the  ice  is  a  spell  you  will  learn  full  well, 

More  potent  than  ball-room  floor. 

You  can  mark  the  flush  on  her  rounded  cheek, 

The  flash  in  her  love-lit  eyes, 
The  waist  you  have  spanned,  and  the  tiny  hand, 

And  the  lips  without  disguise. 
You  will  like  them  better,  my  boy,  to-day, 

Under  the  light  of  the  sun; 
By  its  golden  glow  you  will  learn  to  know 

What  you  have  wooed  and  won. 


CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

IT   was    Christmas ;    and    up  with  the  rise  of  the 
* 
sun 

Got  merrily  every  blithe  little  one : 


The  first  thing  they  did  was  to  rush  with  a  clatter, 
Which  waked  the  whole  house  to  know  what  was 
the  matter, 

To  look  in  their  stockings  and  count  up  their  joys, 
To  taste  of  the  sugar-plums,  gaze  at  the  toys; 

For   their   hearts    were    too    full    of   their   wonderful 
wealth 

To  think  of  their  playing,  not  even  by  stealth. 

101 


102  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

From   the   depths   of   these   stockings   they  quickly 

turned  out 
Enough  of  the  good  things  to  silence  all  doubt. 

There  were  papers  and  boxes,  with  candies  so  rare 
That  the  very  first  opening  perfumed  the  air; 

There  were  nine-pins  and  chequers  for  Walter  and 

Dan, 
Croquet  and  a  sweet  little  Dollie  for  Fan — 

A  doll  that  called  forth  from  her  dear  little  eyes 
The  sparkles  of  gratitude,  love  and  surprise; 

For  its  dress  was  the  brightest  and  bluest  of  silk, 
And  the  trimming  as  white  as  the  whitest  of  milk, 

While   its  boots  they  were  made  from  the  finest  of 

kid, 
And  its  soft  sunny  locks  by  a  bonnet  half  hid — 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  1 03 

A  bonnet  that  by  its  appearance  alone 
Looked    much    as     though    fairies    had     milliners 
grown. 

And  there  was  a  package  for  Daisy  the  queen — 
A  box  with  contents  such  as  never  were  seen, 

For  in  it  were  nestled  a  necklace  and  brooch, 
And  ear-rings  that  fairly  defied  all  reproach ; 

While  for  Maud  and   for   Del   there  were  oceans 

of  things, 
Such    as    only    at    Christmas    Old    Santa     Claus 

brings : 

Books,  pictures  and  puzzles,  and  wonderful  games, 
And  things  of  which  I  have  forgotten  the  names ; 

But  all  of  them  charming,  and  all  of  them  rare, 
Enough  to  make  every  little  one  stare, 


104  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

And  wish,  with  a  mingling  of  longing  and  fear, 
That    Christmas    would    come   every   month    in    the 
year. 

With  a  chatter  like  magpies  they  hurried  to  dress., 
Mixing  up  with  their  joy  an  occasional  guess 

As    to   what    Will   and    Clara,   who    lived    the   next 

door, 
Had  got  in  their  stockings  from  Santa  Claus'  store ; 

And  if  Cousin  May,  who  had  longed  for  a  doll, 
Had  got  it,  or  got  any  present  at  all. 

So,    with    guessing,    and    chattering,    and    laughing 

aloud, 
Of  a  sudden  the  breakfast- bell  startled  the  crowd ; 

But,  alas  for  the  breakfast !  each  frolicsome  elf, 
So  sated  with  joy,  had  forgotten  itself; 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  105 

And,  uneaten,  the  breakfast  was  left  on  the  board, 
For  the  pleasures  that  dwelt  in  their  new-gotten  hoard. 

Oh,  then  what  a  row-de-dow,  rumpus  and  riot 
There  came  from  that  crowd,  who,  in  general,  were 
quiet ! 

Such    Ohs !    and   such   Ahs !    and   such    screams   of 

delight ! 
The  whole  was  enough  to  deafen  one  quite, 

« 

If  it  had  not  been  Christmas,  when  each  little  throat 
Is  permitted  to  scream  its  most  wonderful  note. 

And  so,  with  their  games  and  exchanging  of  toys, 
The  morn  passed  away  with  a  plenty  of  noise, 

Until  the  bell  rang,  and  there  came  the  first  guest, 
Followed   up  by  some  more :    each  was   dressed   in 
their  best. 


106  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

There   were   aunties,   and    uncles,   and    cousins,   and 

friends, 
And  such  other  good  things  as  Santa  Claus  sends ; 

For   what   is    there   better,   when    Christmas    comes 

round, 
Than  that  aunties  and  uncles  and  cousins  be  found 

Filling  up  at  the  table  each  welcoming  seat, 
And  helping  at  dinner  the  pudding  to  eat? 

And  oh,  what  a  dinner!      The  water  runs  down 
In  a  stream  from  my  mouth,  as  this  feast  of  renown 

Flashes  back  on  my  memory,  waking  a  sigh 
For  the  visions  of  turkey,  of  pudding  and  pie 

That    went,    as    such    good    things    have    vanished 

before, 
Down  that  very  red  lane  always  gaping  for  more. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  IO/ 

That  pudding,  a  marvellous  compound  of  sweets — 
The  pudding  that  every  one,  young  and  old,  eats — 

The  pudding  of  Christmas,  the  pudding  of  age, 
The  pudding  of  youth,  of  the  fool,  of  the  sage — 

The  pudding  that  wakes  in  the  wanderer's  brain 
The  last  latent  thought  of  his  home  once  again. 

Then,  after  the  pudding,  what  revel  and  rout! 
What  a  pulling  of  cousins  around  and  about ! 

What  a  wonderful  playing  of  "blind-man's  buff!" 
And  of  "  puss-in-a-corner  "  they  had  more  than  enough  ; 

Then,  "  Open  the  gates  as  high  as  the  sky," 
Gave  a  help  to  the  hours  just  wandering  by, 

Until,  when  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

There  was  dancing,  and  songs  that  we  all  knew  so  well 


108  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

That  we  joined  in  the  choruses,  roaring  our  best, 
Long  after  the  sun  had  sunk  down  in  the  west. 

With  the  lighting  of  lamps  a  rumor  went  round, 
In   a   whisper,   that    soon    there    would    be    on    the 
ground 

No  less  of  a  personage,  hearty  and  true, 
Than  Santa  Claus  proper,  and  Mrs.  S too. 

The  whisper  had  scarcely  got  scattered  about 
When    we    heard    from    the    distance    a    faint    little 
shout : 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  there,  on  my  life, 
Stood  Santa  himself,  and  his  quaint  little  wife. 

They    nodded    and    bowed,    and    shook    hands    all 

around, 
And  did  everything  in  creation  but  frowned. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  I<X) 

They   laughed,   and    they   sang,    and    made    fun    for 

us  all, 
And  they,  danced  the  last  dance  from  the  Carnival 

ball, 

Till    we   thought    that   each    youngster    its    buttons 

would  burst, 
As  they  laughed  at  the  pranks  of  King  Santa  Claus 

First ; 

And  then,  as  the  evening  drew  on  apace, 
He  held  up  his  hand  with  an  exquisite  grace, 


And     hushing    the     laughter,     he     uttered     some 

words 
That  sounded  to  all  like  the  singing  of  birds. 

He    said,    "  Now,    my   darlings,    I    mean    you    to 

see 
My  latest  invention — a  real  Christmas  tree : 


HO  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

So  follow  your  leader;"  and  off  in  a  trice 
We   marched   two   by  two  through   the    room    once 
or  twice, 

With  him  and  his  jolly  old  wife  at  the  head, 
And  the  music  kept  time  to  our  frolicsome  tread. 

The  dining-room  doors  swung  back  at  his  knock, 
And    the    sight    that    we    saw    was    almost    like    a 
shock. 

There,  stretching  its  length  in  a  gorgeous  array, 
A  feast  for  the  fairies  in  opulence  lay ; 

And  right  in  the  middle,  all  studded  with  light, 
Stood  an  evergreen  tree — a  most  beautiful  sight. 

It  was  hung  from  its  top  to  its  bottom  with  toys; 
There   were   some   for   the   girls   and    some   for   the 
boys. 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  Ill 

And  there  we  ate  ices  and  jellies  and  cake, 

And  drank  lemonade,  till  they  made  our  jaws  ache ; 

And  we  laughed  and  we  talked,  and  then,  after  that 
Mr.  Santa  Claus  drew  out  our  names  from  a  hat; 

And   as   they  were  called,  each  advanced,  and   was 

free 
To  choose  what  they  liked  from  the  magical  tree. 

Oh,    merciless    Time!    could    you     lend    me    your 

wings 
To  go  back  through  the  pleasuring  record  of  kings, 

I  doubt  if  the  seeking  would  show  me  a  day 
Like  that  which  I  sing — and  you  hurried  away; 

For,   as    life    leads    us    on   and    you   cut    short   our 
years, 

We  find  there's  less  laughs,  but  a  plenty  of  tears. 

G 


1 1 2  CHRISTMAS  DA  Y. 

We  find  that  our  pudding  has  not  the  same  phase 
As  that  which  we  ate  in  our  innocent  days. 

But  ten  strikes  the  clock :   it  is  time  to  depart. 
Santa   Claus    and    his    wife    have    gone    off    like    a 
dart ; 

And  of  all   that  were  there   not  a  soul   could    have 

said, 
With  a  certainty,  whither  the  couple  had  fled — 

Whether  out  by  the  door,  or  out  through  the  wall, 
Or  up  by  the  chimney,  or  whether  at  all 

They  had  left,  or  had  only,  by  Santa  Claus'  power, 
Just  made  themselves  viewless  at  that  very  hour. 

So    they    kissed    all    around    and    bade    a    "  Good- 
night !" 
Some  looking  worn-out  and  some  jolly  and  bright; 


CHRISTMAS  DAY.  113 

But  not  one  of  all,  though  'most  dropping  to  sleep, 
But  spake  out  their  wish,  and  as  ardent  as  deep, 

Said,  "  May  we  all  live  until  this  time  next  year, 
And  spend  CHRISTMAS  DAY  with  you  merrily  here !" 


I  WISH  YOU  A  HAPPY  NEW 
YEAR. 

T    WISH  you  a  Happy  New  Year, 

Gentlemen,  one  and  all, 
And  you,  most  charming  ladies, 

Who  grace  this  splendid  hall. 
The  wind  is  free  and  biting  cold, 

But  the  fire  is  very  near; 
I  watch  its  glare  through  the  window-pane; 

So  I  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year. 

Excuse  me  if  my  nose  is  blue, 
If  my  garments  are  not  whole  ; 

Your  coats,  I  see,  are  of  double  cloth, 
Your  boots  are  a  double  sole. 

It  is  gay  and  glorious  wine  you  drink — 

I  can  see  it  sparkle  from  here, 
111 


/   WISH   YOU  A   HAPPY  NEW   YEAR.  11$ 

As  I  stand  on  the  pavement  cold  and  wet, 
And  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year. 

0  ladies  bright  and  beautiful ! 
I  came  but  an  hour  ago 

From  a  lonely  room,  in  a  lonely  street, 
That  your  footsteps  never  know; 

1  saw  a  woman  whose  blood  I  see 
Stitched  in  your  robes  of  silk — 

How  she  would  have  relished  a  glass  of  wine, 
Instead  of  her  bread  and  milk ! 

The  times  are  very,  very  hard, 

And  labor  very  low — 
In  yonder  garret  there  lies  a  man 

Whose  head  is  tinged  with  snow : 
The  landlord  says  he  must  die  to-day, 

He  looks  so  gaunt  and  grim ; 
He  says  he  owes  for  a  quarter's  rent — 

It  is  very  bad  for  him. 


Il6  I  WISH   YOU  A   HAPPY  NEW   YEAR. 

Fair  lady — you  with  the  golden  hair — 

Come  gaze  at  this  thin-lipped  child; 
See  how  she  shivers  and  shrinks  along, 

And  looks  so  wan  and  wild. 
Did  you  notice,  lady  bright  and  fair, 

That  she  had  an  eye  like  you  ? 
It  was  dim  and  sad  with  hunger  and  cold, 

But  a  perfectly  heavenly  blue. 

It  was  but  a  few  short  minutes  ago, 

As  I  came  through  yonder  lane, 
That  I  met  a  pale  and  trembling  girl, 

Whose  face  was  marked  with  pain. 
She  clutched  her  fingers  long  and  thin, 

And  raised  her  tearless  eye 
To  the  tempting  loaves  in  a  baker's  shop, 

And — hurried  swiftly  by! 

I  knew  that  pale  and  tearless  girl 
When  she  was  enshrined,  like  you, 


/   WISH   YOU  A   HAPPY  NEW  YEAR.  IT? 

The  jewel  of  a  peerless  home, 

The  well-beloved  and  true. 
Change  comes,  my  gentle  lady  fair — 

Change  to  the  loved  and  dear ; 
But  change  may  never  come  to  you ; 

So  I  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year. 

Ah  me !  when  I  was  a  little  boy — 

That  was  a  happy  time — 
The  New  Year  was  a  New  Year  then, 

My  life  a  pleasant  rhyme ; 
But  the  time  has  passed,  and  brought  a  change, 

A  change  for  sorrow  and  woe  ; 
But  I  will  not  speak  of  that  happier  time, 

'Tis  so  very  long  ago. 

And  now,  my  gentle  ladies  all, 

May  you  never  know  want  or  sin : 

I  see  that  the  toes  are  out  of  my  boots, 
And  the  snow-water  rushes  in ; 


Il8  I  WISH   YOU  A   NAPPY  NEW   YEAR. 

So  I  bid  you  all  a  gay  good-bye, 
Though  bread  is  very  dear; 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  fair  and  good, 
I  wish  you  a  Happy  New  Year, 


APPENDIX. 


THE  edition  of  "  Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems"  just 
issued  by  the  Publishers  of  "The  Outcast  and  Other 
Poems"  being  a  new  and  enlarged  one,  they  feel  it  incum- 
bent on  them  to  say  something  in  reference  to  certain  of 
the  poems  therein  contained,  especially  the  leading  poem 
of  "Beautiful  Snow." 

This  fine  poem  has  had  the  singular  literary  fate  of  hav- 
ing been  claimed  by  no  less  than  eight  or  nine  different 
persons,  several  of  whom  have  actually  disputed  with  the 
real  author  through  the  public  press  and  with  the  Pub- 
lishers, ending  only  in  their  shame  and  their  conviction  of 
falsehood. 

That  all  false  claims  and  falsehoods  might  be  set  at  rest, 
we  publish  in  the  same  volume  with  "Beautiful  Snow" 
several  more  of  Mr.  Watson's  poems,  which  will  show  by 
their  beauty  and  the  style  that  they  are  all  from  the  same 
hand. 

"  The  Dying  Soldier  "  is  a  poem  that  has  achieved  won- 
derful popularity ;  and  it  is  a  fact  worth  mentioning  that 
this  poem  and  "Beautiful  Snow"  were  both  read  upon 
nights,  a  few  months  since,  to  audiences  ranging  from  one 
thousand  to  four  thousand,  in  seven  of  the  great  cities  of 
the  country,  including  New  York,  Philadelphia  and  Boston. 

"Ring  Down  the  Drop,  I  Cannot  Play!"  was  written 
after  a  circumstance  that  occurred  several  years  since  at 
the  Terre  Haute  theatre,  where  Mr.  McKean  Buchanan  and 

119 


120  APPENDIX. 

his  daughter  were  playing,  and  simply  follows  his  words 
and  tells  the  story  as  it  occurred. 

"The  Sailing  of  the  Yachts  "  was  written  at  the  time  of 
the  famous  ocean  yacht-race,  and  was  thought  by  the 
New  York  Herald  worthy  of  insertion  in  its  editorial 
pages. 

The  universal  press  of  the  country  received  the  first 
edition  of  "Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems"  with  the 
highest  commendation,  and  especially  spoke  of  "The 
Patter  of  Little  Feet,"  "  The  Oldest  Pauper  on  the  Town," 
"Drowned,"  "No  Letter,"  "The  Sunlight  in  Her  Hair," 
"Death's  Carriage  Stops  the  Way,"  "Farmer  Brown," 
and  of  Mr.  Watson  as  a  poet  of  the  highest  order,  and  one 
who  appeals  directly  to  the  human  heart. 

In  issuing  the  last  edition  of  "Beautiful  Snow,"  several 
other  poems  written  by  Mr.  Watson  have  been  added  to 
the  volume,  viz.:  "The  Kiss  in  the  Street,"  "I  Would 
that  She  were  Dead,"  "What  I  Saw,"  "Please  Help  the 
Blind,"  "Somewhere  to  Go,"  and  "Swinging  in  the 
Dance."  These  poems  possess  great  interest,  and  display 
a  lively  and  pleasant  fancy,  as  well  as  a  genuine,  hearty  sym- 
pathy with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  humanity.  They  will 
take  strong  hold  of  the  heart  and  memory,  and  will  live  and 
last  because  they  touch  many  chords  of  human  sympathy. 

We  also  append  a  copy  of  a  letter  written  by  Mr.  Watson 
to  the  publishers  of  the  first  edition  of  "Beautiful  Snow 
and  Other  Poems,"  claiming  his  authorship  of  it : 

NEW  YORK,  May  4,  1869. 

GENTLEMEN, — In  answer  to  your  inquiry,  I  will  give,  in 
as  few  words  as  possible,  the  history  of  the  poem  of 
"Beautiful  Snow  ;"  and  as  it  has  acquired  some  notoriety 
or  celebrity  by  having  sundry  claimants,  which  certainly 
is  flattering  to  me,  I  will,  as  far  as  I  can,  spea.k  of  these. 

I  wrote  "Beautiful  Snow  "  in  the  fall  of  1858,  while  on 


APPENDIX.  121 

a  visit  of  a  few  days  to  Hartford,  Connecticut.  Where  I 
got  the  idea  from  it  is  hard  to  recall  at  this  late  day,  but 
it  certainly  was  not  from  "sitting  in  any  Broadway  saloon," 
or  having  "  the  idea  suggested  by  any  fallen  woman."  I 
wrote  it,  as  I  have  written  a  hundred  other  things,  from  the 
thought  of  the  moment,  and  sent  it,  as  I  then  sent  all  my 
writings,  to  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  who  printed  it  in 
their  Weekly.' 

The  poem  becoming  popular,  and  apparently  having  no 
real  father,  it  suffered  the  fate  of  all  other  orphans  of  a 
literary  class,  and  was  claimed  by  a  dozen.  I  have  in  my 
possession  hundreds  of  copies  of  it,  cut  from  country  and 
European  papers,  in  some  of  which  the  title  of  the  poem  is 
altered  ;  in  others  the  text  is  changed,  words  cut  out,  and 
words  interpolated ;  and  I  count  no  less  than  nine  different 
copies  with  as  many  stranger  names  at  their  heads.  This 
was  at  first  a  source  of  amusement  to.  me,  and  I  never 
thought  it  worth  while  to  claim  the  production  openly 
before  the  public  until  one  impudent  charlatan,  whose 
name  I  Avill  spare  in  this  letter,  wrote,  over  his  own  signa- 
ture, to  the  New  York  Sunday  Times,  claiming  its  paternity. 
Even  this  would  have  been  amusing,  had  not  the  fellow, 
when  confronted  by  Mr.  Stephen  Massett,  who  had  been 
reading  the  poem  all  over  the  world,  in  his  entertainment 
of  "Drifting  About,"  told  that  gentleman  coolly  that  my 
name  must  be  erased  from  his  bills,  and  his  own,  as  the 
real  author,  substituted.  Not  content  with  this,  he  went  to 
the  Messrs.  Harpers'  and  declared  himself  the  author,  and 
denounced  me  as  a  fraud.  As  this  had  become  serious,  I 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  Times  relating  the  manner  and  time 
of  its  writing  and  publication,  which  happened  to  be  about 
five  years  before  this  fellow  claimed  to  have  written  it,  and 
then,  taking  a  friend  with  me,  I  called  on  him.  I  was 
utterly  astounded  to  find  that  he  still  persisted  in  his  as- 
sertion to  my  face,  but  like  a  noble  fellow  he  pitied  me 


122  APPENDIX. 

for  having  claimed  it,  declared  he  forgave  me,  and  actually 
offered  to  shake  hands  with  me.  I  think  he  was  a  little 
disgusted  when  I  insisted  on  his  proofs  of  authorship,  to  pro- 
duce which  I  gave  him  two  months,  though  he  only  asked 
two  weeks ;  and  as  that  is  three  years  ago,  I  presume  he  is 
searching  for  them  yet.  I  have  heard  of  him  since  reciting 
the  poem  as  his  own,  and  publishing  in  country  papers 
doggerel  verse,  endorsed  editorially,  to  prove  that  he  wrote 
it,  which  I  should  think  proves  very  positively  that  he 
never  wrote  anything  in  his  life  that  possessed  either 
rhythm,  rhyme,  or  grammar. 

I  only  speak  of  this  case  as  interesting  on  account  of  its 
singularity,  for,  though  I  have  met  many  odd  cases  of 
claimants  before  and  since,  none  had  the  interest  for  me 
that  this  had.  I  have  been  present  several  times  and  heard 
the  poem  recited,  and  heard  the  orators  claim  it  as  their 
own ;  and  only  a  few  weeks  since  I  was  delighted  to  hear  a 
very  pretty  young  lady  in  your  own  city,  before  an  audi- 
ence of  a  thousand  people,  give  the  first  two  verses  garbled, 
and  then  add  several  of  her  own  or  somebody  else's,  which 
I  am  much  too  modest  to  wish  to  own,  though  her  pro- 
grammes had  my  name  in  full  as  the  author. 

Of  some  of  the  reputed  claimants  I  can  speak  knowingly. 
One  who  has  been  paraded  especially  as  the  writer,  Dora 
Shaw,  declared  to  me,  personally,  that  she  had  never 
claimed  it ;  and  I  believe  her.  The  story,  romantic  as  it 
is,  originated  in  the  brain  of  some  country  editor,  and  has 
as  little  foundation  in  the  life  of  that  lady  as  it  has  in  her 
mournful  death,  seeing  that  she  still  lives. 

I  have  never  offered  proofs  of  authorship,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  I  have  looked  upon  such  a  course  as  absurd. 
Any  one  claiming  the  least  literary  judgment  can  see  by 
my  other  poems  that  they  are  all  of  the  same  family,  and 
that  it  is  only  by  the  accident  of  popularity  that  "  Beauti- 
ful Snow  "  ever  had  any  claimant  but  myself.  It  certainly 


APPENDIX.  123 

is  flattering  and  gratifying  to  me,  and  it  would  be  strange 
if,  with  that  belief,  I  should  not  entirely  forgive  any  one 
who  has  so  flattered  me. 

With  thanks  for  your  kindness  and  liberality,  and  a  hope 
that,  for  your  sakes,  the  republication  in  book  form  may  be 
a  success,  I  write  myself, 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  W.  WATSON. 

"Beautiful  Snow"  having  achieved  such  a  wonderful 
popularity  in  this  country  and  in  Europe,  and  in  its  travel- 
ling through  the  press  becoming  mutilated,  we  purchased 
the  copyright,  and  have  published  it  in  the  beautiful  style 
it  is  now  issued  in.  Its  great  sale  has  warranted  our  belief 
in  its  popularity  and  its  fast-increasing  appreciation  by  the 
public  at  large. 

To  show  the  estimation  "Beautiful  Snow  and  Other 
Poems  "  is  held  in  by  the  united  public  press  of  the  coun- 
try, we  append  a  few  notices  of  the  work  : 

"Few  poems  have  been  more  popular  in  this  country 
than  'Beautiful  Snow.'  Its  authorship  has  been  claimed 
for  several  different  persons,  and  not  many  weeks  since  we 
saw  the  old  statement  to  the  effect  that  the  manuscript  was 
found  on  the  person  of  an  unfortunate  woman  after  her 
death,  and  that  she  was  the  author.  Every  reader  will 
remember  the  long  discussion  provoked  by  this  statement 
when  it  first  appeared  years  ago.  The  many  who  read  it 
then  had  copies  of  the  poem  laid  away  in  scrap-books,  for 
it  had  touched  everybody  as  it  had  touched  the  unfortunate 
woman  who  carried  a  manuscript  copy  with  her  to  her 
grave.  It  is  now  definitely  stated  that  this  poem  was  writ- 
ten by  Mr.  Watson  in  1858,  and  was  published  in  Harpers' 
Weekly.  People  liked  the  melody  and  the  spirit.  It 
pleased  even  when  it  did  not  touch  the  deeper  feelings. 


124  APPENDIX. 

When,  some  years  later,  'The  Dying  Soldier'  appeared,  it 
was  scarcely  necessary  to  say  '  by  the  author  of  Beautiful 
.Snow,'  because  there  were  the  marks  of  the  same  heart  and 
hand  about  it.  This  poem  touched  the  soldiers  as  the  other 
had  touched  the  people.  There  is  no  pretence  of  giving 
the  soldier  vernacular,  but  the  dramatic  situations  and  the 
whole  spirit  of  the  scene  were  as  if  torn  from  the  battle- 
field. The  intensity  of  feeling,  the  quick-spoken  words 
charging  like  bewildered  soldiers,  first  this  way,  then  that, 
whirling  constantly  in  a  dizzy  way  to  the  same  point  of 
'Wasn't  it  grand?'  and  the  rough,  nervous  asking  for 
prayer,  are  so  in  keeping  with  the  battle  atmosphere  that 
makes  men  demons  and  babes  in  spirit  in  the  same  minute, 
that  the  poem  found  in  those  years  of  war  a  place  in  every 
heart.  In  many  of  the  other  poems  there  is  this  war  feel- 
ing— this  suggestion  of  terribly  dramatic  action  and  of 
quick-beating  hearts,  and  in  all  there  is  the  quality  that 
touches  one,  and,  we  may  say,  saddens." — Toledo  Blade. 

"  In  issuing  the  present  new  and  enlarged  edition  of 
'Beautiful  Snow'  several  other  poems  written  by  Mr.  Wat- 
son, and  not  included  in  the  first  edition,  have  been  added 
to  it— viz.  :  'The  Kiss  in  the  Street,'  'I  Would  that  She 
were  Dead,'  'What  I  Saw,'  'Please  Help  the  Blind,'  'Some- 
where to  Go,'  and  'Swinging  in  the  Dance.'  The  poem 
which  lends  its  name  to  the  book,  'Beautiful  Snow,'  treats 
of  a  well-worn  subject  with  originality  and  feeling  at  once 
delicate  and  intense.  The  despair  of  the  wretched  outcast 
as  she  watches  the  falling  of  the  pure,  beautiful,  yet  cold 
and  unfeeling  snow,  and  remembers  that  she  was  once  as 
fair  and  pure,  is  depicted  with  true  artistic  effect  All  the 
poems  in  the  volume  possess  great  interest  and  display  a 
lively  and  pleasant  fancy,  as  well  as  a  genuine,  hearty  sym- 
pathy with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  humanity.  They  will 
take  strong  hold  of  the  heart  and  memory,  and  will  live 


APPENDIX.  125 

and  last  because  they  touch  many  chords  of  human  sym- 
pathy. '  Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems '  is  complete  in 
one  large  octavo  volume,  and  is  printed  on  the  finest  tinted 
plate  paper,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  with  beveled  boards, 
gilt  top,  gilt  side  stamp  and  back.  It  is  one  of  the  hand- 
somest volumes  ever  issued  in  this  country.  Price  of  the 
book  bound  in  this  style,  $2.  In  full  gilt,  full  gilt  edges, 
full  gilt  sides,  etc.,  $3.  In  full  Turkey  morocco,  full  gilt 
edges,  sides,  etc.,  $4." — Weekly  Press,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

"  'Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems,'  by  J.  W.  Watson, 
would  make  an  acceptable  present  to  any  one.  It  is 
complete  in  one  volume,  printed  on  the  finest  tinted  plate 
paper  and  elegantly  bound.  '  Beautiful  Snow  '  is  admired 
throughout  this  country  and  Europe,  and  the  other  poems 
possess  great  merit.  The  first  mentioned  has  been  claimed 
by  a  number  of  persons,  but  it  is  doubtless  the  production 
of  Mr.  Watson,  who  wrote  it  while  on  a  visit  to  Hartford 
in  November,  1858.  It  was  published  immediately  after- 
ward in  Harpers'  Weekly.  Peterson  &  Brothers  have  pur- 
chased the  copyright,  and  have  now  presented  it  to  the  pub- 
lic in  a  beautiful  and  enduring  form." — New  York  Weekly. 

"The  poem  of  'Beautiful  Snow'  has  been,  like  that 
other  sentimental  lyric,  'Rock  me  to  Sleep,  Mother,'  both 
widely  popular  and  bitterly  contested  as  to  authorship.  We 
believe  there  is  now  no  denial  that  Mr.  Watson  wrote 
'Beautiful  Snow;'  and,  apart  from  other  proofs,  this  vol- 
ume presents  that  one,  without  which  all  documentary  and 
circumstantial  evidence  in  such  cases  amounts  to  nothing — 
the  proof,  namely,  that  he  could  write  it,  in  that  he  has 
written  numerous  other  pieces  showing  the  same  poetic 
feeling  and  skill,  and,  let  us  add,  the  same  faults ;  for  Mr. 
Watson's  poetry  is  not  perfect  in  artistic  form,  though  it 
has  power  to  touch  the  heart.  Such  pieces  as  '  The  Dying 


126  APPENDIX. 

Soldier '  are  powerful  in  suggestion  and  in  dramatic  vivid- 
ness, while  others,  like  'Swinging  in  the  Dance,'  are 
more  graceful  and  less  out  of  the  commonplace  of  society 
verses.  But  the  volume,  as  a  whole,  is  exceedingly  attract- 
ive, and  this  new  edition  contains  several  poems  not  con- 
tained in  the  former  one." — New  York  Christian  Union. 

"T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers  publish  }  Beautiful  Snow 
and  Other  Poems,'  by  J.  W.  Watson.  The  book  contains 
as  one  of  its  attractions  the  poem  called  'Beautiful  Snow,' 
whose  heart-stirring  pictures  have  touched  the  tenderest  emo- 
tions of  humanity,  and  will  never  lose  their  power  to  awaken 
sympathy  for  the  unfortunate  victim  whose  remorse  and 
penitence  find  eloquent  utterance  in  other  poems.  '  The 
Patter  of  Little  Feet'  and  'The  Dying  Soldier'  evince  a 
lively  fancy  and  a  hearty  sympathy  with  human  joys  and 
sorrows.  It  is  one  of  the  choice  books  of  the  season,  and 
is  printed  and  bound  in  a  style  suitable  for  presentation, 
and  will  be  acceptable  for  its  well-known  leading  picture 
of  winter  loveliness." — Boston  Daily  Evening  Transcript. 

"  'Beautiful  Snow  and  other  Poems'  were  evidently 
written  at  leisure  moments,  and  though  the  author  does 
not  claim  to  be  a  poet,  several  of  them  have  touched  the 
popular  heart  in  a  manner  indicative  of  great  intrinsic 
worth.  '  Beautiful  Snow '  was,  at  the  time  of  its  publica- 
tion, one  of  the  most  successful  poems  that  ever  appeared 
in  a  periodical.  There  is  much  in  the  volume  that  can  be 
highly  commended." — New  York  Daily  Times. 

"  '  Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems'  has  had  great  popu- 
larity, which  is  not  likely  to  diminish,  as  it  touchingly  tells 
the  tale  of  many  a  soul-wreck.  Several  other  poems  of  the 
volume  have  achieved  a  wide  popularity,  among  which  may 
be  mentioned  'The  Dying  Soldier,'  'The  Oldest  Pauper 


APPENDIX.  1 27 

on  the  Town,'  '  Patter  of  Little  Feet '  and  '  Farmer  Brown.' 
The  popularity  of  these  pieces  is  accounted  for  not  only  by 
their  genuine  poetic  fancy  and  lyric  power,  but  by  the  sym- 
pathy they  awaken  in  the  heart  of  universal  humanity.  The 
authorship  of  '  Beautiful  Snow'  has  been  claimed  by  a  num- 
ber of  persons,  and  has  been  the  subject  of  much  newspaper 
comment.  The  claims  of  Mr.  Watson,  however,  are  now 
established  beyond  all  question." — Lutheran  Observer. 

"Mr.  Watson  has  found,  in  his  'Beautiful  Snow  and 
Other  Poems,'  his  way  to  the  hearts  of  a  large  class  of 
readers,  and  the  volume  will  win  a  warm  welcome  from 
them. ' ' — Cincinnati  Gazette. 

"  This  new  and  enlarged  edition  of  '  Beautiful  Snow  and 
other  Poems,'  by  J.  W.  Watson,  is  as  handsome,  inside 
and  out,  as  one  could  desire,  and  the  contents  really  de- 
serve their  fine  dress.  It  is  rare  that  a  collection  of  poems 
contains  so  much  which  many  will  recognize  as  pleasantly 
familiar,  and  which  those  most  familiar  with  it  will  be  the 
first  and  warmest  to  welcome  in  book  form.  The  popular 
poem  which  gives  a  name  to  the  volume  does  not  strike  us 
as  the  best,  though  its  popularity  is  not  undeserved.  We 
find  in  a  number  of  the  others  even  more  of  that  careless 
vigor  and  unstudied  felicity  in  which  the  author  excels.  It 
is  a  pleasing  collection." — Boston  Commonwealth. 

"It  is  finally  settled  that  Mr.  J.  W.  Watson  wrote 
'Beautiful  Snow.'  That  and  'other  poems'  have  been 
put  in  very  elegant  book  form  by  T.  B.  Peterson  & 
Brothers.  The  book  is  bound  in  maroon  and  gold,  and 
the  typography  is  excellent  Thousands  of  young  ladies 
think  '  Beautiful  Snow '  is  so  full  of  sympathy  and  sweet 
suffering  that  thousands  of  young  gentlemen  cannot  do 
better  than  to  buy  the  beauty  of  a  book  and  present  it  to 

II 


128  APPENDIX. 

them.  'The  Sunlight  in  her  Hair,'  'No  Letter,'  'A  Million, 
All  in  Gold,'  'Death's  Carriage  Stops  the  Way,'  'My 
Pipe,'  'Ring  Down  the  Drop,  I  Cannot  Play,'  and  twenty 
other  'characteristic'  poems  of  kindred  title  and  tendency, 
are  relied  on  by  the  author  to  attain  publicity  along  wUh 
'  Beautiful  Snow.'  "—Brooklyn  (TV.  F.)  Eagle. 

"  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  of  Philadelphia,  have  pub- 
lished a  new  edition  of  J.  W.  Watson's  '  Beautiful  Snow 
and  Other  Poems.'  The  long-standing  controversy  upon 
the  authorship  of  the  first  poem  in  the  volume  appears  to 
be  settled  in  favor  of  Mr.  Watson,  and  the  very  handsome 
style  in  which  his  works  are  now  issued  must  add  to  their 
already  extensive  popularity." — New  York  Sun. 

"  'Beautiful  Snow,'  the  leading  poem  in  the  volume  en- 
titled 'Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems,'  is  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  productions  known  in  the  history  of  our  lit- 
erature ;  and  the  other  poems  contained  in  the  book  can 
have  no  higher  recommendation  than  that  they  are  by  the 
same  author." — journal,  Wilmington,  N.  C. 

"A  new  and  enlarged  edition  of  'Beautiful  Snow  and 
Other  Poems,'  by  J.  W.  Watson,  has  just  been  published 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia.  The  contents 
of  the  volume  are,  to  a  great  degree,  of  a  domestic  cha- 
racter, and  offer  many  attractions  to  the  lovers  of  emotional 
poetry." — New  York  Tribune. 

"A  new  and  elegant  edition  of  'Beautiful  Snow  and 
Other  Poems  '  is  just  from  the  press  of  Messrs.  T.  B.  Peter- 
son &  Brothers.  The  poems  of  this  writer  commend  them- 
selves to  all  for  their  originality,  purity  of  sentiment,  and 
delicacy  of  treatment.  A  number  of  gems,  not  to  be  found 
in  any  previous  edition  of  Mr.  Watson's  poems,  find  place 


APPENDIX.  129 

in  this,  such  as  '  The  Kiss  in  the  Street,'  '  I  Would  that 
She  were  Dead,'  'Please  Help  the  Blind,'  'What  I  Saw,' 
*  Swinging  in  the  Dance,'  and  'Somewhere  to  Go.'  The 
volume  is  printed  from  clear  type,  on  fine  tinted  plate 
paper,  and  is  handsomely  bound  in  green  and  gold,  with 
gilt  tops." — Boston  Daily  Traveler. 

'•'As  a  holiday  or  presentation  book  to  any  one,  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  handsome  volume,  'Beautiful  Snow  and 
Other  Poems,'  from  the  press  of  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers, 
Philadelphia,  is  particularly  apropos.  The  edition  is  a  new 
and  enlarged  one,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  and  elegantly 
gilt.  With  the  poems  most  people  have  long  since  delighted 
themselves.  In  the  beautiful  shape  in  which  it  is  now  given 
to  the  reading  community  by  the  Petersons',  it  comes  to  us 
in  the  nick  of  time." — Philadelphia  Sunday  Mercury. 

•''T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers  have  published  a  new  edi- 
tion— much  enlarged  by  the  addition  of  seven  new  pieces — 
of  'Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems,'  by  J.  W.  Watson. 
The  lyric  which  gives  the  title  to  this  volume  first  appeared 
in  No.  100  of  Harpers'  Weekly  (November  27,  1858),  and, 
as  the  saying  is,  immediately  'ran  the  round  of  the  press' 
in  this  country  and  in  England.  It  has  been  claimed  for 
and  by  several  persons,  but,  after  a  careful  examination  of 
their  various  pretensions,  we  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Watson 
really  is  the  author.  The  closing  stanza,  which  was  unjus- 
tifiably altered,  but  not  improved,  to  adapt  the  poem  for 
recitation  in  public,  is  given  correctly  in  the  present  edi- 
tion. Mr.  Watson,  who  does  not  regularly  belong  to  '  the 
press,'  has  considerable  facility — whether  knack  or  talent 
we  shall  not  pause  to  inquire — in  writing  strikingly  sensa- 
tional ballads  upon  familiar  subjects.  Sometimes  he  infuses 
tenderness  and  pathos  into  his  effusions.  'The  Oldest 
Pauper  on  the  Town,'  'Drowned'  and  'Ring  Down  the 


1 30  APPENDIX. 

Drop,  I  Cannot  Play,'  belong  to  this  class.  In  the  present 
edition  there  are  seven  new  poems.  The  book,  which  is 
handsomely  printed  on  tinted  paper  and  richly  bound  in 
morocco  cloth,  will  doubtless  have  a  large  sale  during  the 
approaching  book-buying  season." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  'Beautiful  Snow'  has  been  widely  read  and  as  widely 
admired.  It  is  delicate  in  imagery,  liquid  in  movement 
and  extremely  touching  and  happy  in  expression.  It  is  one 
of  the  happiest  of  works  in  conception  and  execution. 
Although  'Beautiful  Snow'  is  considered  Mr.  Watson's 
finest  poem,  it  is  by  no  means  the  only  one  which  is 
worthy  of  more  than  passing  remark.  '  Beautiful  Snow ' 
has  certainly  attracted  more  attention  than  his  other  poems, 
but  such  as  'Death's  Carriage  Stops  the  Way,'  'The  Sun- 
light in  Her  Hair,'  'No  Letter,'  'The  Dying  Soldier,' 
'The  Patter  of  Little  Feet,'  and  'The  Oldest  Pauper  on 
the  Town,'  are  all  full  of  fine  feeling,  admirably  expressed. 
Mr.  Watson  is  a  much  better  poet  than  the  world  thinks. 
His  versification  is  always  correct,  and  often  full  of  novel 
effect,  and  he  selects  excellent  subjects.  He  deserves  a 
higher  position  in  the  literary  circle  of  American  authors 
than  has  yet  been  granted  him.  The  Petersons'  have  issued 
the  book  in  very  tasteful  style,  and  it  is  suitable  for  pres- 
entation to  any  one.  It  is  complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume,  and  is  printed  on  the  finest  tinted  plate  paper, 
bound  in  morocco  cloth  with  beveled  boards,  gilt  top,  gilt 
side  and  back.  Price  of  'Beautiful  Snow  and  Other 
Poems,'  bound  in  this  style,  $2 ;  price  in  morocco 
cloth,  full  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  sides,  back,  etc.,  $3;  price 
in  full  Turkey  morocco,  full  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  sides,  back, 
etc.,  $4."— Philadelphia  City  Item. 

"Watson's  'Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems'  is  the 
title  of  an  elegantly  bound  and  beautifully  printed  volume 


APPENDIX.  1 3 1 

from  the  press  of  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadel- 
phia. Perhaps  there  never  was  a  poem  which  met  with 
such  sudden  and  widespread  popularity,  or  was  attributed 
to  so  many  celebrated  authors,  as  'Beautiful  Snow.'  Its 
highly  dramatic,  combined  with  its  practical  character, 
ranks  it  among  those  poetical  effusions  which  will  make 
it  acceptable  in  any  age  and  country  where  our  language 
is  understood.  The  other  poems  are  evidently  from  the 
same  hand,  and  are  worthy  of  their  companionship  with 
the  initial  gem  in  the  volume.  The  inscription  on  the  first 
page,  'To  My  Mother,'  shows  the  existence  of  the  true 
poet's  heart." — Philadelphia  Daily  Bee. 

"  It  is  not  often  that  so  beautiful  a  volume  as  '  Beautiful 
Snow  and  other  Poems'  issues  from  the  press.  The  type 
and  paper  are  both  luxurious,  and  the  binding  is  in  perfect 
taste.  The  principal  poem  is  the  celebrated  '  Beautiful 
Snow,"  about  the  authorship  of  which  there  raged  such  a 
controversy,  but  which  is  now  conceded  to  be  the  work  of 
Mr.  J.  W.  Watson.  The  tenderness,  reality  and  felicitous- 
ness  of  this  poem  will  always  give  it  a  prominent  place  in 
the  public  heart.  The  other  poems  in  the  volume  are  also 
good,  some  of  them  even  better  than  'Beautiful  Snow,' 
though  none  on  so  popular  a  theme.  The  volume  is  dedi- 
cated to  the  author's  mother." — Ladies'  National  Magazine. 

"Mr.  J.  W.  Watson  is  the  author  of  the  beautiful  and 
touching  production  entitled  'Beautiful  Snow,'  which  has 
appealed  to  thousands  of  hearts,  and  will  be  read  and 
spoken  of  as  long  as  language  exists.  It  was  written  in 
Colonel  Colt's  house  at  Hartford,  Connecticut,  in  the  fall 
of  1858,  and  was  read  there  for  the  first  time  in  the  presence 
of  many  choice  literary  friends.  No  doubt  the  poor  crea- 
ture in  whose  possession  a  copy  of  this  poem  was  found  at 
her  death  had  copied  it,  as  hundreds  of  others  of  her  class 


132  APPENDIX. 

have  done;  and  it  would  be  well  if  every  female  in  the 
land  would  copy  it  and  ponder  well  its  teachings.  Mr. 
Watson  writes  with  vigor,  and  we  have  read  the  contents 
of  the  whole  volume  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  Several 
of  the  pieces  can  scarcely  fail  to  impress  the  reader  very 
forcibly,  and  will  touch  the  feelings  by  their  tenderness. 
The  volume  has  been  produced  by  the  publishers  in  a 
handsome  style." — American  Literary  Gazette. 

11  'Beautiful  Snow'  has  achieved  a  very  wide  popularity, 
and  the  other  poems  in  the  volume  are  worthy  of  being 
included  in  the  same  collection." — True  Flag. 

"We  do  not  often  see  a  more  elegant  volume  than 
'Beautiful  Snow.'  The  poems  form  very  vivid  pictures  of 
scenes  that  have  dramatic  interest.  Several  of  them  are 
incidents  of  the  war;  all  of  them  appeal  directly  to  human 
sympathy  for  suffering  or  misfortune.  The  chief  poem  has 
the  pathos  that  marks  Hood's  celebrated  poem  the  '  Bridge 
of  Sighs,'  and  the  same  feeling  of  pity  for  fallen  humanity. 
There  is  a  vigor  in  the  expression,  and  the  poetic  merit  of 
the  poems  is  undeniable." — Philadelphia  Age. 

"  The  deep  pathos  of  '  Beautiful  Snow '  has  long  been 
recognized.  It  was  written  thirteen  years  ago,  and  the 
literary  reputation  of  the  author  has  survived  every  attempt 
to  blacken  it." — New  York  Standard. 

"The  enterprising  Petersons'  have  made  a  very  beauti- 
ful book  of  the  celebrated  poem  of  'Beautiful  Snow.'  It 
is  indeed  beautifully  gotten  up,  and  impressed  by  the 
very  best  of  type.  The  history  attached  to  this  tale  of 
pathos  in  poetry,  in  addition  to  its  peculiar  literary  merits. 
must  insure  for  it  a  very  large  circulation.  For  so  com- 
plete a  book  the  price  is  very  low.  The  'Other  Poems' 


APPENDIX.  133 

mentioned  on  the  title-page  are  composed  with  a  fine 
sentiment  of  tenderness,  and  are  of  that  unexceptionable 
metric  quality  which  must  recommend  them  very  favorably 
to  the  public." — Pomeroy1  s  Democrat. 

"There  has  been  a  good  deal  of  controversy  about  the 
authorship  of  'Beautiful  Snow,'  but  Mr.  Watson's  claims 
are  now  generally  conceded.  It  will  live  in  literature  side 
by  side  with  the  '  Bridge  of  Sighs,'  '  Resurgam,'  and  other 
rare  gems  of  pathos.  The  volume  has  several  other  poems 
of  great  merit.  The  whole  tenor  of  the  book  is  plaintive. 
'The  Dying  Soldier'  is  a  powerful  production  in  the 
pathetic  line." — Chicago  Evening  Journal. 

"All  of  the  poems  contained  in  the  volume  entitled 
'Beautiful  Snow,'  have  stood  the  test  of  criticism,  and 
some  of  them  are  justly  regarded  as  perfect  gems.  It  is 
enough  to  say  of  '  Beautiful  Snow'  that  the  authorship  of  it 
has  been  claimed  by  half  a  dozen  or  more  unscrupulous 
individuals  who  were  ambitious  of  fame,  and  yet  too  lazy  to 
work  for  it.  We  must  say,  however,  that  we  do  not  look 
upon  it  as  the  best  poem  in  the  volume.  We  vastly  prefer 
'The  Patter  of  Little  Feet'  and  'The  Dying  Soldier, 
which  latter  is,  by  long  odds,  one  of  the  best  poems  that 
the  war  inspired." — Buffalo  Commercial  Advertiser. 

"'Beautiful  Snow  and  Other  Poems,'  is  just  the  book 
for  presentation  to  the  ladies,  with  whom  the  leading  poem 
is  so  much  of  a  favorite.  The  song  of  the  poor  outcast, 
who  has  the  additional  curse  of  memory,  treats  a  well-worn 
subject  with  originality  and  feeling  both  artistic  and  deli- 
cate."— New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  '  Beautiful  Snow '  is  a  volume  of  poems  of  extraordi- 
nary merit.  Every  stanza  in  it  is  well  done,  and  it  closes 


134 


APPENDIX 


with  a  touch  of  pathos,  which  is  a  peculiarity  of  many  o 
the  pieces  in  the  volume.     The  poet  moralizes  with  a  vei- 
of  sadness  often  on  what  he  sees  in  the  every-day  life  abou 
him.     We  find  it  in  'The  Oldest  Pauper  on  the  Town,'  i 
'Ring  Down  the  Drop,  I  Cannot  Play,'  in   'A  Million 
All  in  Gold,'  and  in  'Please  Help  the  Blind.'     But  th 
most  noteworthy  of  these  pathetic  poems  is  the  one  entitled 
'The  Dying  Soldier.'     It  was  read  a  few  months  since 
together  with  '  Beautiful  Snow,'  in  New  York,  Philadelphia 
Boston  and  other  of  our  great  cities,  before  audiences  o 
from  one  to  four  thousand    persons.     Certainly,   nothin: 
more  stirring  was  ever  heard  from  any  stage.     The  rough 
courageous   trooper,  full  of  enthusiasm  over  the  gloriou. 
stand  he  and  his  comrades  made  when  the  enemy's  batta! 
ions  were  hurled  against  them,  have  never  been  excelled 
There   are    other    verses    on    various   subjects   we    shouh 
like   to   quote,   did   space    permit,   in   which   the    intensi 
feeling  of  the  poet  is  shown,  but  we  can  only  call   thi 
reader's  attention  to  two  or  three  of  the  pieces  in  whicl 
they  occur.     'The   Patter  of  Little   Feet'    is   exquisitel; 
sweet  and  tender;  so  is  'The  Kiss  in  the  Street;'  \vhil« 
'  The  Sailing  of  the  Yachts  '  is  inspired  by  a  patriotic  glov 
over  the  renown  our  gentlemen  sailors  won  in  the  ocear 
yacht-race  when  they  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  their  tiny  craf 
during  the  stormiest  season  of  the  year.     The  volume  i 
evidently  the  work  of  a  man  possessing  a  high  order  of 
genius,  and  is  printed  and  bound  in  a  manner  that  wil 
make  it  an  ornament  to  any  drawing-room.     We  feel  confi- 
dent that  many  editions  will  be  called  for  of  a  work  so 
artistic  and  of  so  popular  a  character." — New  York  Globe, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


PS 


W33o     The  outcast. 


PS 

3157 

W33o 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS3157  .W330 

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L  009  617  106   1 

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